


Theatricality

by azo_dye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brief Mention of Suicide, Case Fic, Dean Winchester's First Time With a Man, Drama, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, Getting Together, High School Theater, Hunter Dean Winchester, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possession, Teacher Castiel (Supernatural), Theater Ghosts, drama teachers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azo_dye/pseuds/azo_dye
Summary: The one where Dean's just trying to hunt a ghost but Cas and his stupid dumb theatrical performance keeps getting in the way... and then Dean has to save him from the ghost...
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural)/Other(s), Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. Prelude

Dean’s broken in to a lot of places. He’s broken out of more, but that’s usually the easier part of his gig anyway. The school itself didn’t look like it had the cutting edge of security, but the old busybodies with their craning necks and suspicious squinting at newcomers down at the grocery store on the next block could complicate Dean’s life a lot more than any hackable security camera. Even so, Dean knows what he’s doing. Pick a vulnerable spot—a propped open dock door, open window, anywhere that’s not the _front door_ —and waltz right in. And Dean’s a professional, so all he really needs is his lock-picking kit, even a paper clip, and he can make an entrance out of practically any door. He’s been doing this for years, trained by the best. Central City High School in the middle of Nebraska couldn’t be that difficult to case. Easy-peasy, in and out, quick as you please.

Well, Dean’s never been known for his skill at probability. While he was counting on having to deflect attention from the locals, there was one more thing he hadn’t accounted for. _Witnesses._

Dean crept down the darkened hallway, half an eye on his reader for any blips. The local paper, the _Republican Nonpareil_ described the latest string of freak accidents around the school as “unusual” and “under open investigation” which meant the local sheriff had absolutely no idea what was really going on and no clue where to even start. Luckily, Dad had caught wind of it and sent Dean to take a look around. It was nice, working. Kept his mind off other things.

There wasn’t any sign of EMF activity by the main office or the front doors. Dean wasn’t surprised. Spirits tended to stay most active around where they died, and if the papers were to be believed—if it was a spirit behind the spontaneously combusting lights and cracked panes of glass—most of that energy should be focused around the rear part of the building, near the connection to the junior high and the auditorium.

It was just after eight, meaning that the parking lot was nearly completely empty—the building and community was too small for even the night custodians to be working at this hour. The middle of November meant that Dean even had the cover of nightfall on his side.

Dean got a slight EMF blip near the cafeteria. He held his position and swept over the white-tiled room that had probably been a combo auditorium before a rich alumnus coughed up the money for something nicer. The reader didn’t pick up anything stronger than background noise, not unusual for this part of the state. There were a lot of Native American burial grounds and final resting places of pioneers out West. People were sometimes surprised by the amount of spirits out on dark country roads, but Dean was no fool. A woman in white was as common as a coyote out here, if you knew where to look.

On his way into town, Dean had stopped at the solitary blue historical marker on the outskirts of the main area. Lone Tree was the name of the local history buff draw, and the statue that stood as a memorial was just _reeking_ of leftover misspent energy. That was the thing about the Midwest; the spirits may not be as angry without the draw of fortune and fame that bigger cities promised, but the ghosts were sadder out here in the once-endless Great Plains. The ghost he was hunting here was no different. A classic case of tragedy brought on by the theater, but even worse because now the victims were a bunch of kids. Girls caught up in the drama of lost prom dates and cheating boyfriends, tragically taken out by freak theater accidents. Boys dreaming of a way out of a small town, found dead in the dressing rooms. Dean was pretty sure it was a ghost dropping lights, but he had to check.

At least the latest case wasn’t a death. The student in question was able to get out of the way of a falling set piece, just barely avoided fatal head trauma. He was recovering in the hospital with a few minor scrapes and only a moderate concussion. The papers said he had sworn up and down a man in black pushed the set piece down, that he had seen just a glimpse of him, but he was _sure._ That’s why Dean was here. Maybe a since-dead principal or custodian gone awry. Maybe even a jealous graduate of the school, still bitter about not getting the role of a lifetime.

Dean snorted at the thought; as often as those come up in small schools like these.

The middle school was attached to the high school, making his area of coverage a bit bigger than he liked, but luckily, his target was smack in the middle. He continued down the hallway past a few Home Ec classrooms and, inexplicably, a corner piled with paper cut-outs of buffalos. A large gray sign hung above a trash can, pointing down the next hallway to the theater. Dean took a last glance around the deserted hall, and soldiered on.

The first side door he tried to the theater was locked, but the lock and handle were so rusted out, Dean wasn’t sure his lock picking kit would even do him any good. He didn’t really relish the thought of kicking it down. The building might be deserted, but this town was so quiet, neighbors were likely to hear any serious commotion. The last thing he wanted was to involve all two squad cars of the local police. Sometimes, small-town police were worse than LAPD. No one higher up to answer to.

Suddenly, he heard a shriek coming from inside the theater. He spotted a second door a few yards down, this one potentially a main door. A small window was cut out of this door, with dim light pouring out. Without thinking, Dean yanked the door open. He got one step inside the theatre, EMF reader out, sawed-off at the ready, and was met by the startled expressions of a dark-haired man in glasses and at least ten teenagers wearing... face paint, of all things.

Fuck.

Dean straightened up, tucking his gun away as quickly as he could without drawing too much attention to it. Guns in school never went over well, no matter who you were talking to. 

“Uh… hi. We’re almost done with rehearsal.” The dark-haired man said, raising a long eyebrow. The effect, combined with the man’s high cheekbones and glasses, made Dean straighten up.

The kids around him giggled and looked nervously at each other. Some were sneaking their phones out of pockets and boots, glad for a break to check on social media likely.

Dean cleared his throat. “Right, uh. Don’t mind me. I’ll just… I got some work to do back here, so just—just carry on.”

The man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed at the interruption. He turned back to the group of students and clapped his hands. “Alright everyone, stay with me. Let’s run through it one more time, and then I promise to let you go.” The kids sighed and moved into new positions. The man snapped at one of the students intently typing on a keyboard, “Kyle, you start the scene. Get to it. Alright, from the top.”

Dean sighed and glanced down to his EMF reader. This was definitely the place. Lights flashed along the top, marking that there was definitely some hinky shit going on in this room. He really didn’t want to leave and come back later, risking another suspicious entrance on the side. The dude said he wasn’t going to take much longer, and if he could keep up the disguise of a school employee, he might have a better shot at getting this done faster.

Dean pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and aimed it around the sound booth at the back. A jumble of wires and a desktop from at least 1998 covered most of the booth space. A few sheets of paper with various cues and crude drawings also littered the floor. Dean stooped to pick one up that depicted a man with graphite-black hair and glasses swearing at a student smoking what Dean supposed was a joint. He squinted at the drawing before glancing up and chuckling. Seems the guy at the front had his own, rather artistic, fan club.

Moving on, he stooped to look underneath the booth. He wasn’t one hundred percent sure _what_ he was looking for, just anything that seemed out of place. He kept an ear on the practice at the front, hoping they’d finish up sooner rather than later.

“Brent, you _have_ to stop reading that line like that. It’s distracting.” The man said like he was exasperated, probably having said it five times that day. The student—Brent—snipped back at him, earning a chuckle from the rest of the teenagers.

Dean rolled his eyes. He remembered being a snotty teenager, but that didn’t mean he liked dealing with them in his adult years. He sighed and sat down in the chair for the booth. He really couldn’t get where he needed to be with civilians in the room, he might as well be comfortable while he waited. From here, he couldn’t really tell what the play they were reenacting was supposed to _be._ There seemed to be some conflict with the character played by Brent and another student with floppy brown hair. There didn’t seem to be any actors on stage with any real talent, but small schools had a tough time with a limited pool of talent sometimes.

The guy in charge harangued the students about spots and pacing for about ten more minutes—with limited success—before sighing and calling it quits for the day.

“Tomorrow,” he began, threateningly. “Tomorrow you will know your lines. We perform in a week, you guys.” He dismissed the students, who immediately went back to their phones and socializing while walking back to their things. For students who weren’t invested in the theatrical process, they sure were taking their sweet time getting _out_ of the theater.

Dean took their dismissal as his cue and stood up, cracking his back. As the last girl made her way out of the theater, Dean was left in an empty room with the dark-haired teacher. The man looked up at Dean and rubbed his forehead.

“Sorry for taking up your time. Are you part of the custodial staff?”

Best to play along. “Yep, just here to check on some lights.” Dean flashed him a quick smile.

The man tilted his head in a way that Dean was pretty sure he’d seen a puppy do. “I thought I knew… well, everyone in the school. Are you new?”

From this distance, Dean knew the man couldn’t get a close enough look at him or the uniform he definitely snagged from an open utility closet along to way to notice there was a name stitched along the lapel. He knew he definitely didn’t look like a Jerry to anyone. “Sure am, just started. Gotta just… check the lights.” Dean cleared his throat and tried to sound convincing. “So, Imma need you to leave so I can do that.”

The man nodded slowly and stooped to pick up his things from one of the seats. The lights from the stage were dimmed enough that Dean couldn’t gather any specifics about his appearance, but he looked young. The man started towards the door but kept glancing back towards Dean, like he knew something was up.

Dean rolled his eyes. The sooner this dude left Dean to his business, the sooner this guy could get back to his dumb production without worrying about any more students getting hurt. Or worse, possessed.

As soon as the door closed behind the man, Dean hit the lights for the main stage, plunging the theater into near pitch blackness. He took his flashlight and started towards the wings, where the papers had reported the strange figure the student saw.

Unsurprisingly, spirits were actually more apt to appear in the darkness, rather than total light. Dean hadn’t dealt with more than a handful of spirits that were comfy enough to grab someone in broad daylight. More stupid teenagers had seen their first (and sometimes last) ghost simply by not using common sense in reportedly haunted houses or bone yards.

Dean pulled back the curtain on the left wing gingerly, keeping an eye out for flashes or sudden movements. He didn’t feel anything weird—no chills, no cold spots, not even a breeze. It was just… still. Dean’s training told him that could also be an indicator of something going on.

The wings seemed pretty standard, for all that Dean’s limited experience in high school theater’s allowed. Solid brick behind here leading into the shop. Dean tapped at the walls here and there. Nothing even hollow in the structure. He aimed the beam of his flashlight up towards the fly system. That was apparently where the kid saw a black figure right before a heavy piece of set dropped. The light system swung gently above him, with a metal catwalk attached. He didn’t know if there was a way for him to get up there, especially not being able to operate the fly system by himself. Shame he didn’t have Sam here with him. The kid would’ve known how to get him up there.

He checked around the curtains, tugged at all the ropes experimentally, he even straight-up asked the spirit to come out. Nothing did anything. If this was an angry spirit, it was certainly one of the quieter ones he’s met.

A door creaked on the far side of the theater. Dean sighed, and ducked behind the main curtain. Impersonating Jerry the custodian might have worked one time, but he didn’t like his chances for it working a second. Footsteps, quick and light, came down the aisle leading up to the stage. This couldn’t be his ghost, Dean reasoned. Ghosts rarely bothered walking with actual legs. He took a breath and snuck a peek out from around the heavy red fabric.

He swore. It was that nosy guy—a teaching assistant or whatever he was—come back from wherever he’d gone. Dean vanished behind the curtain again right as the guy’s own flashlight beam came up to sweep the stage. His footsteps were mere feet away from where Dean was hiding. He had to make a decision. Was it better to let the guy find him, probably with the cops already on the phone? Probably not. Better go for option two.

Dean reached out just as the guy was passing and grabbed his arm, yanking him around and pressing him against the nearby wall with a forearm across the chest. The guy _screeched_ and fumbled for his flashlight.

“What the fuck?” The guy yelled. Dean clapped a hand across his mouth, really hoping there wasn’t anyone else in the building.

“Language!” Dean said, rather cheekily. “Okay, dude. What are you doing back here? Forget your keys?”

The dude flailed and tried to smack him with the flashlight. Dean wrestled it out of his hands and pointed it at his face, illuminating a cut jawline with a bit of scruff around the sides. “I really need you to leave, dude. I don’t want to hurt you, or your precious theater.”

“Look— _will you get that flashlight out of my face?!_ ” The man said, sounding exasperated. Dean put it down unwillingly. The man blinked a few times to get his vision back, but when he did, Dean was overwhelmed by _blueblueblue_ behind the glasses. The man looked even younger up close. In fact, Dean might not put him more than two years over his own age.

“Okay, are you actually in charge here, or are you just hanging around?” He said gruffly, letting the man go to stumble upright. He didn’t have time to get thunderstruck by some pissy dude’s eyes like some kind of—

His dad’s voice finished that thought in his head with a word that made Dean cringe.

In front of him, the man spluttered in answer. “Yes—I mean, no—I… technically. Yes. I’m in charge.”

Dean blinked. “… well?”

“Yes. I’m the drama teacher.” The man put his hands on his hips. Dean had to resist rolling his eyes. Dude sounded three weeks out of college and about two months overdue for a vacation already.

“Bullshit. They left you in charge of all of these kids on your own? Where’s the actual director or leader or whatever you call him?”

Pissy Blue-Eyed Guy squinted at him. “I’m fully capable of doing it! I’ve been certified for six months! And anyway, I should be asking _you_ what you’re doing here. Sorry, but I know you’re not Jerry.” He stabbed Dean’s overalls with a finger right over the embroidered name.

“Not to be rude or anything, dude, but I really can’t tell you.”

The guy squinted at him. “I’m calling the police.” He tried to stagger away, but Dean grabbed him and slammed him against the wall again. “Would you stop doing that?”

Dean sighed. “Okay, look. Where’s your boss? Your head teacher, principal, whatever?”

“Well… the regular drama teacher isn’t here,” the man said, wringing his own hands. “He’s at home, likely.”

“Why wasn’t he here… directing -or whatever- with you? No offense, but you look _fresh_ out of the dorms. They trust you with all these kids this early?”

The man looked away, uneasy. “I… he’s been—giving me a lot of leash, so to speak. Probably more than I deserve, but I’m handling it.”

Oh. Dean suddenly understood. He recognized when responsibility was handed off under the pretense of a favor. Knew it intimately. Knew from experience. “He dumped this all on you, didn’t he?” he said.

Fire blazed within the blue. “I already told you! I’m fully equipped to head this theatrical production and—“

“Oh my god!” Dean doubled over, letting the flashlight beam bounce. “He’s probably at home, drunk by now, isn’t he? He’s not even conscious! Oh man, does the school know about that, or are they just ignoring it?” Even through his acute sympathy, Dean couldn’t help laugh about it at the dude’s expense.

“They… advised me to take it as an opportunity to get lots of ‘hands-on’ experience.” The man said, his own grimace turning up at the sides the longer Dean carried on.

Dean wiped at his eye, still chuckling. “How soon did they tell you this was all on you? Soon as ya walked in?”

“They at least had the decency to wait until after my first day.” The man said, a bit more visibly at ease now. “But don’t change the subject. What are you doing here?”

Sighing, Dean sized him up. It might be easier to get what he wanted if he told the truth. Well, as much as he reasonably thought he could get away with. “I’m hunting a ghost.”

The guy stared. “A ghost. In the theater?”

Dean nodded. “Best place for ghosts, honestly. Theaters, churches, hospitals, anywhere with high emotional attachment and trauma. I even found one in a circus once.”

“You’re insane.”

Shrugging, Dean stepped away and went back to aiming his flashlight up at the catwalk. In all likelihood, there probably weren’t remains up there, but even the smallest lock of hair would do it.

“Like, you’ve got to be kidding me. There’s no ghost in our theater. It’s a high school for fuck’s sake.”

Dean swung the beam back towards the guy’s face, causing him to squint again. “You swear a lot for a high school teacher.”

“You clearly haven’t been in a high school in a long time. We all swear.” The man had the audacity to put his hands on his hips again.

“You haven’t read the newspapers lately? That kid that got hurt last week? And all the other mysterious deaths the administration and police chalked up to ‘accidents’? That doesn’t alarm you?” Dean cast a surprised look his way as he clicked off his flashlight and dropped his bag, searching for the EMF reader he had pocketed earlier.

The man scoffed. “Yes, it’s terrible that Kevin got hurt, but no I don’t buy this cockamamie story about some mysterious figure pushing a set piece, that likely wasn’t screwed down like it was supposed to be. There’s a perfectly logical explanation for this,” the man grabbed his arm, causing Dean to have to fight down the impulse to deck him, “and I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Seems awfully convenient to have all these accounts of ghost activity then, don’t it?” Dean sneered, liking this guy less by the second. He flipped on the reader and let it scan. Dean frowned at the reading. It was definitely picking up _something_ but it wasn’t a reading he was familiar with. Pulses of energy, here and then gone in a flash. He held it different directions, trying to fine-tune the location up on the stage. It was stronger over on the south side of the stage by where the teacher was standing. Very strange.

“This town is a little… reactive, I will say.” The man allowed.

“So, they all knew… and they left you in charge of all the little drama dorks, the whole theater, and they forgot to mention the whole place was haunted?” Dean leaned down to shoulder his bag and flicked on the flashlight again, swinging it towards the ceiling out in the main house. Years of water damage and too-little funding had taken its toll on the corners. Probably something every graduation organizer fretted about every fuckin’ year without getting clearance to fix it. He walked down the steps and a little further down the aisle, reader out and the grumpy teacher following at his side.

“It’s not haunted, there’s just… a _draft_ or something. I don’t buy the BS the locals throw around.” The man put his hands in his pockets and squinted up at where Dean was pointing the beam.

Dean swung the light back towards the man’s face, having the decency this time to keep it out of his eyes. “Dude. Your theater is fucking haunted.”

The man sighed, rolling his eyes up to the rafters. “It’s a _theater_. If there wasn’t some legend floating around that some tragic actress stabbed herself on stage, it wouldn't even _be_ a theater.”

“What if it’s not just one actress though?” Dean continued down, pausing to scrape lightly at the peeling paint from the wall.

“This is ridiculous.” The man said under his breath.

“Well, either fortunately or unfortunately—ridiculous is kinda my main gig.” Dean stopped again. He shuffled around and stuck out his hand, cutting off the man’s progress down the aisle. “Name’s Dean.”

The man gripped Dean’s hand in kind, squinting. “Castiel Novak. So you really, really aren’t here about the lights, huh.”

“Nope,” Dean said, popping the ‘p’. “I have been around long enough to recognize that this place is in serious need of repairs, though. ‘Specially your roof near the curtain and in the corner here.”

“Be that as it may... are you serious? Is it all real?” Novak seemed more curious now than suspicious.

Dean hesitated. Might as well be honest with the guy. “I really am here because of a haunting.”

The man put his face in his hands, “Oh my god, this is a dream. This is a bad dream.”

“Wish I was, sweetheart.” He turned away from Novak, covering up his cringe at the endearment by focusing on the paint. Sometimes, spirits left a tell-tale glow to uneven paint if they passed too close to it.

He swung around again. “Aren’t theaters supposed to have like… a ghost light or something? That’s a thing, isn’t it?”

“Oh, not you too!” The man positively whined in anguish as he turned around and threw his hands in the air.

“What?”

“The kids were on me for ages about that. ‘Mr. Novak, if we don’t keep the light on, the ghosts will curse our show!’ ‘You have to respect the superstitions, Mr. Novak!’ “ Dean gathered the high-pitched voice was a poor impression of high school students.

The man rambled on, “I didn’t think it was, like… common knowledge! …Unless… “ the man, Mr. Novak, suddenly squinted like Dean had a second head, “you’re a theater kid too, aren’t you? Did the kids put you up to this? Just because I’m new doesn't mean you get to push me around.”

Dean sighed, “Dude, I’m not in cahoots with your snotty kids!” He stopped, “Okay, let’s back up. Start over. Hi, my name is Dean Winchester. I’m definitely not a janitor, but I am definitely hunting a ghost that I believe is haunting your theater, Mr. Teacher-Man-Novak.”

“This is still the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Look, I’m not exactly looking for you to agree with me here, pal. Please just let me do my thing. It’ll be ten minutes… tops! Just gotta sweep around with my EMF reader here, and I promise I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I’m not letting you ‘do your thing’.” Dean had to fight an eye roll at Novak’s use of air quotes. “Especially now that I know you’re crazy and think that ghosts are real.”

“Okay. Okay, fine. Have it your way, dude. Enjoy the ghosts.” Dean turned on his heel, stomping back out the door to the parking lot. He’d really have to wait until Mr. Teacher-of-the-Year went home for the night. Of course, now that they’d run into each other, the man would probably be lingering to see if he came back _again_.

Teachers always think they know more than everyone else.

He hefted his gear into the open passenger of the Impala and leaned against the hood. His trick knee was bothering him again, especially with another damp and chilly Nebraska autumn upon them.

Across the street was a hotel that had clearly been through several owners, and maybe one too many hailstorms. Shingles peeled off in places, and sagged dangerously close to the edge in others. This whole town felt just a little too close to decrepitness, like one good twister could take it out. Still, he had to appreciate how tight-knit they were. It might make his job harder sometimes, but it was nice to see members of the community care so much about the security of the school that they’d brave a potentially insane lunatic creeping around in a theater after dark.

Even if the guy was stupid enough not to have a weapon. He might be attractive, but the man had clearly never been in a real fight in his life.

Dean turned back towards the door he had exited. The Impala wasn’t parked anywhere a passerby could see, but he had a clear view of the door. He’d be able to see when the guy left to go back to his highly sensible, highly ugly-as-fuck tan Continental. He needed to get back and check out the whacky-ass EMF reading he got on stage.

But the guy never came. Was he waiting in there? Standing guard? Dean frowned and checked his watch. It was nearing eleven, surely this guy had to get home. He waited a few more minutes before his conscience got the better of him.

“Fuck.” He sighed, starting towards the door. He didn’t want the guy to be trapped in there with a ghost he _definitely_ knew was there.

His loping gait turned into a sprint when he heard the guy start screaming.


	2. Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... it turns out there really is a ghost. Just Dean's luck.

Well... shit.

Dean heard Novak scream and he felt the adrenaline and hunters’ instincts kick in a hundred fold as he charged back in through the door. He ripped his sawed-off from the makeshift holster on his side and cocked it, not quite sure what was waiting for him as he kicked in the door between him and the back entrance of the theater.

Inside, he looked for Novak first. The man was pressed against the far wall, being held a few inches off the ground with a ghostly hand clamped tight around his windpipe. He wasn’t screaming anymore, but the look on his face suggested he would be if not for the blockage of air.

“Yo, fugly!” Dean called to the spirit holding Novak. Grisly, ghostly lacerations made a patchwork of the specter’s skin, almost like he’d fallen in a meat grinder. Something silver in color oozed from several wounds and was splattered across the tattered remains of the suit he wore.

Dean leveled the shotgun and fired, more intent on getting the ghost away from the civilian than doing any actual damage. He knew he wouldn’t hit Novak, but had to suppress an eye roll when the man squeaked breathlessly at the sight of the gun.

The spirit dropped Novak, leaving him to crumple to the ground. Rounding on Dean, the spirit rushed him, soaring twenty yards before Dean could whip another shot, this one aimed for something serious. He cocked the gun again and loosed another shot that caught the spirit in the left pectoral, causing him to flicker and disappear. He knew it wasn’t the last he’d see of the ghost, but he at least had a good idea of who he might me looking for to ID the fucker.

Dean holstered his gun and jogged to check on Novak, who was staring wide-eyed where the ghost had been.

“Did you just shoot a ghost with a shotgun?” Novak was at least able to verbalize, so he was doing better than some did after their first encounter with the supernatural.

“Salt is the rounds,” Dean explained, extending a hand to help Novak up. “Doesn’t kill ‘em, but it makes them fuck off for a while. You okay?”

Novak nodded shakily. “I wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t grabbed me and shoved me around. It’s hands felt like ice.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “Bet you’re glad I didn’t get too far away, huh?” He chuckled at Novak’s glare and took the opportunity to pull out his EMF reader. The pings it sent out were far more subdued this time. The ghost wasn’t gone, but it was hiding for now. Waiting.

“So ghosts are real?”

“I wasn’t lying.” Dean paused, “about that anyway.”

Novak rubbed his forehead. “Please tell me that’s the only weird thing you hunt. You don’t go looking for... werewolves too, do you?”

Dean winced in memory of a particular set of cuts on his left thigh, and chose to stay silent for the time being.

“Ghosts are real,” Novak said, turning away and taking a few steps towards center stage. “Ghosts are real, and my theater is haunted.”

“Sorry, man. Pretty bad luck.” Dean pocketed his EMF reader.

Novak suddenly turned. “Why is my theater haunted?” he asked, eyes narrowed. Jesus, like it was Dean’s fault the ghost decides Novak’s ass is ripe for haunting. Not that he exactly blames the ghost, but...

Dean shrugged. “Could be for a hundred reasons. Wrongful death, improper burial, wonky furniture arrangement. I’ve literally seen it all.” This wasn’t a lie. Dean once had to find and burn the remains of a ghost that was so upset with the layout of her former home, she ripped herself from the afterlife and came after the new owners in a fit of tacky brocade fabrics and ornate curtain tassels. Not the kind of case you talk about with your buddies at the hunters’ bar afterwards.

“Is there anything I can do to make it go away?”

“That’s why I’m here, man. Like I said, Dean Winchester’s the name, ridiculous and extraordinary are my game.”

Novak raised his eyebrow again, blue eyes flashing behind his glasses. “So you find ghosts a lot? Or maybe the ghost finds you?”

Squinting, Dean swung around and headed for the main lights. “Guess I never considered the second option, really. I’ve been doing this as long as I can remember.”

He hit the main lights so the stage was bathed in the yellow of the spotlights overhead. His reader was quiet, but now that he knew the huffy teacher wasn’t likely to turn him in, he might be able to get back to work.

“Well… thank you. For saving me,” Novak said. “From the—the ghost.”

Dean didn’t look over. “My pleasure.”

“So how do we get rid of it?”

Sighing, Dean scrounged around for his notepad in his jacket pocket. The catwalk did look a little hazy from the ground. He’d definitely try to get up there tonight and look around. This Novak guy might even help him pull down the cable. “Well, I’m going to try to figure out who the fucker is, first. Then I gotta find where he’s buried, dig up the remains, and—“ he stopped. “you know what, never mind. Just rest easy knowing I’ll take care of this.”

“I have to quit.” Novak sighed.

“Hey, come on. It could be worse,” Dean said. He knew learning ghosts were real could be a bit of a shock, but Dean was very good at his job. “I’m like, 80 percent sure the ghost isn’t haunting you, specifically. Once I take care of it, it shouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

Novak shook his head, looking more stressed by the minute. “I’m not cut out for this.”

“Dude, relax. It’s just a ghost. Heh, I don’t get to say that very often.”

“No, Dean. You don’t understand,” Novak said. Uh oh, looked like they were on first-name basis now. “I’m not even supposed to _be_ here. I’m a speech teacher, I don’t even _like_ theater. This is every bad drama teacher horror story I’ve ever heard of, and somehow this is still worse!”

Dean sighed. This Novak guy—Castiel—certainly was high strung. “Again, dude—take it easy. Give me like two days and everything will go back to how it’s supposed to be.” All the snippy teenagers, overdone makeup, and sissy storylines back in place.

“Right. So where do we start?”

Full stop. “Excuse me?” Dean swung around from where he was tugging on the fly lines, trying to figure out which one would pull down the catwalk. “ _We_ do not start anywhere. _I_ am starting at city hall tomorrow morning to try and dig up some historical information about the school. Freaky deaths, tax fraud, that kinda thing. And since you’re fresh meat around here, you ain’t exactly going to be useful for this.”

Castiel crossed his arms. “I’m not going to just let you poke around the school unattended! How are you going to get in without permission?”

“Buddy, you take one look at me and ask how I’m going to get inside a building _without permission_? This ain’t amateur hour, okay? I’m the real deal.”

“But there are cameras!” Castiel gestured to the ceiling. Dean looked up, he hadn’t thought about cameras in the actual theater. The hallway cameras might register a late-night custodian, but it would be a lot harder to explain away the weirdo shit he sometimes had to do for a case. “Police won’t like some stranger skulking around school grounds.”

Dean snorted. “I can handle it. This isn’t the first place I’ve cased.”

“So you’ve broken in places before?”

“Yes...” Dean was not liking where this was going.

“Probably do it again?”

“The more time you waste askin’ questions—“ Dean grumbled. It’s like Castiel was asking for a punch to the gut.

“It’d really slow you down if the police were tipped off, wouldn’t it?” Castiel sounded smug enough that Dean’s hand flexed, itching to deck the guy.

“What?”

“Might connect a few dots in other break-ins, right?”

“You have _got_ to be kidding.”

A pause before Castiel dropped the big one. “I’m going to help you.”

Dean stalked over and pushed himself into Castiel’s space. He only had about one or two inches over Castiel, but like this, he knew he was intimidating. “You are such a dumbass. I’m the last person you wanna blackmail.” He growled and was pleased to see Castiel shrink slightly under the attention, but was less enthused to see Castiel’s pupils expand at this proximity.

Fuck. He backed off, leaving himself some space. Castiel smelled really good, and Dean didn’t want to complicate things more than they already had become. Jobs didn’t get done by crushing on the people making them more difficult. And Castiel had ‘trouble’ written all over him.

Castiel’s voice softened, and his eyes looked mighty similar to a face Dean was sure he’d seen at a pet shop. “Please, Dean.”

“Why do you want to help so bad?” Dean couldn’t help but ask.

Practically bouncing on his feet in hope, Cas replied, “Are you kidding? This is the most interesting thing to happen all year! If this does end up being true, it’ll be much more exciting than anything this dumb show has to offer.”

“What do you mean ‘if’ it ends up being true? Ghost crushing your windpipe not real enough for you?”

Castiel shrugged. “I’ve got chronic insomnia. It could be a very elaborate waking night terror. You too.”

Dean huffed for a solid thirty seconds. “Fine,” Dean always did break down too easily. “But only for the boring stuff, and you’re staying out of me way after that, _capiche_?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I capiche.”

“ _Christ._ ”

“So,” Castiel grinned widely. “Where do we start?”

Dean let his head fall back. “Okay, first assignment. We gotta get this catwalk down. The papers say that’s where the kid—Kevin—spotted the ghost.”

Castiel saluted—Dean groaned—and started towards the fly lines. He picked up the one farthest to the left. “If you grab the corresponding cable on the other side, I’ll help you get it down.”

Dean did as he was told, and when the catwalk was on level with the stage, there was nothing spooky about the metal beam. Dean ran his reader over the pipes, and nodded to himself as it lit up.

“What does that mean?” Castiel asked, hovering close to his elbow. “Are all those lights important?”

“Means a ghost has been in contact with it, or in the area pretty recently.” Dean didn’t often get the chance to explain the finer points of what he did. “The reader tracks electromagnetic frequencies, and ghosts tend to vibrate right up there on the spectrum.”

Castiel nodded, like having conversations about ghost-hunting equipment was normal. “Where do you buy one of these?”

“Made it myself.” Dean said, proudly. “Out of an old Walkman.”

“That’s incredible.”

Dean didn’t have long to gloat. On the far side of the auditorium, a blob of screaming silver fizzled into existence near what he assumed was a light or sound booth above the doors. He heard Castiel gasp behind him.

“Enemy to the arts!” The spirit screamed, hooking a long finger in their direction. It’s form was unclear from this distance, but it was clearly unhappy with their presence. Dean leveled his shotgun and took a shot near the booth. The spirit disappeared, but not before letting the salt round shatter into the glass of the booth, littering the ground below with thousands of shards.

“Well. Shit.” Castiel said, glumly.

Dean swore.

...

The library wasn’t open at this time of night, so Dean figured it was time to settle down for the night. He wound up across the block and down the street from the high school at the hotel he had seen earlier. The buzzing sodium flare lights and the creaking AC units made Dean feel right at home.

What didn’t feel right at home was the nosy drama teacher he now had in tow.

“So what are we going to do, exactly?” Castiel lingered by the trunk of the Impala, peering curiously into Dean’s assortment of weapons, traps, and the inexplicable box of fake IDs.

Dean slammed the trunk and shouldered his duffel bag. “I’m gonna check in and get some sleep. Maybe start tomorrow morning.” Castiel hadn’t been too chatty on the way over here—all fifty feet of it—but Dean was starting to think he could stand to be away from the dude for a little while all the same. It was clear the guy was interested in what he did, but he really wasn’t in the mood to field questions. It could be tough for some guys after they find out all the things that go bump in the night were definitely real and wanted to hurt them more often than not.

“Do you need help with stuff tomorrow?” Castiel asked, his face lighting up.

“Well...” Dean trailed off. He’d said it himself, it might be useful to have a way in at the school during daylight hours. There were a few theories he wanted to check, and he’d love to get his hands on some old records for the school. “I’ll stop by later tomorrow, probably. And then head to the library to find out whatever I don’t get at the school.”

“Oh, cool.” Castiel stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, looking around the empty parking lot.

Dean rolled his eyes, “Should I meet up with you at school?”

“Sounds good,” Castiel said, nodding. “I can let you into the theater if you need to. Y’know, later.”

“Didn’t need your help the first time,” Dean winked. “But thanks for the solidarity.”

“Right.” Castiel looked down.

“What are you gonna tell the school about the window?” Dean asked. He didn’t really like the idea of getting thrown out of the school before he’d really gotten a chance to start. It wouldn’t stop him, but it wouldn’t make anything any easier. “Play practice gone rogue?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “I know the security cameras don’t actually go into the theater, so we might be alright to let it go until morning. They can suspect something fell from the ceiling and shattered the glass or something.”

Dean had gotten a look at that ceiling as well, and would’ve believed it easily. “They won’t question you because your group was the last in there?”

Hand on his hips, Castiel said, “They’ll take my word for it because they trust their faculty.”

“Even if they’re fresh out of college?” Dean gleefully couldn’t resist another dig. Castiel couldn’tbe too much older than Dean’s own 24 years of age, but he already seemed to be very good at getting under this man’s skin.

Castiel scowled at him, but did not argue.

They parted in the lot, Castiel making his way back over to his car near the school. Dean shook his head as he watched the guy leave. Definitely a looker, but way out of his depth on Dean’s job.

The lobby of the small hotel matched the exterior. The room may have once been bright and inviting, but disuse and managerial apathy plunged the room into a more claustrophobic feel. Someone had tried to train a leafy plant to grow around the ceiling, but the sunlight must not make it all the way around the room and was wilted in some places, outright dead in others. The breakfast cereals and waffle maker were all pushed back for the night, along with a bowl of too-ripe bananas. Two vending machines, one for pop, another for stale candy, hummed noisily in the corner for the stillness of the room.

Dean rapped on the desk for attention, brought by a middle-aged woman coming out from the back. Her eyeliner was thick around her eyes, caking into her crows feet.

She blinked, bored already, at him. “Rent you a room, sir?”

“Please. Single room. Ground level if you have it.” It was definitely quieter hunting without his father or brother. Maybe he’d get to watch what he wanted without being bitched at for once.

He gave his card to the desk attendant, and soon had a key to the farthest room on the bottom floor. “Any idea if there’s any burger joints open this time of night?” He asked, hopeful he’d at least get something good to eat in a town this small.

The woman stared. “It’s after 11, Mr. Williams,” his newest fake card. “There’s a gas station ‘round the counter thataway.” She pointed off to the northeast. He thanked her, but she was already gone, likely back to her soaps.

Once Dean dropped off his bag, he went out a side door in the direction she had pointed. Back out in the parking lot, he gazed back over at the high school. Completely dark now, it was easier to see why the place had a ghost. Most high schools carried that kind of run-down, bitten-off-more-than-you-can-chew feel about them. If ghosts were sadder in the Midwest, they were especially sadder in schools.

The gas station was the only building around that still had lights on. A two-pump affair, it was clearly one of the only places the old timers hung out after hours if they weren’t in a bar. They nodded at Dean as he entered in the way old men in small towns do. He smiled tightly and headed back towards the sandwich cooler.

The two men went back to their conversation. The one on the left had a John Deere hat with about thirty years on use pounded into the fabric. His white beard was only slightly less impressive than the full mustache of his buddy sitting opposite him. Dean took his sandwich and a bottle of Sprite up to the front, snagging some Fritos on the way back to the register. The clerk greeted him with a few missing teeth and a friendly smile.

“Saw you walking with that Novak kid,” he said, pleasantly. “You a friend of his?”

Dean shrugged. Trust the whole town to know each other. It was something that could either make his job ten times harder or easier, depending on the town. “Just passin’ through. Seeing an old buddy, you know.”

The clerk nodded. “That poor kid’s been running around like a chicken with his head cut off. They put too much on these young kids come to teach.”

“Yep, that—that’s Castiel. Always... running.” Dean finished lamely. He really didn’t know much about the guy.

“Well, and you know,” the clerk clearly was in a mood to talk. “Your buddy up there is teaching at a _haunted_ school.”

“You don’t say.”

The clerk, his tag said Andy, nodded. “I’m not usually one for ghost stories, but that school right there is definitely haunted.”

One of the men at the table snorted. “Andy, you said that about the Lincoln Manor on main street, too. You love ghost stories too much.”

Dean leaned against the counter. Some free intel couldn’t hurt. “The Lincoln Manor—s’at like a fancy house here in town?”

Andy snorted good-naturedly. “Naw, best steaks outside of Omaha, if you believe it. Used to be an old hotel, though. This town’s got enough history to be haunted, just on that restaurant, even without the help of the school.”

Two ghosts could be indicative of a bigger problem at hand, Dean mused. “I mean, what are we talking? Vengeful brides? Miserly owners?”

The pair at the table snorted and turned back to their conversation as Andy geared up for the tale, clearly thrilled to have someone listen to him. “That hotel has been rumored to house the spirit of not one, but _two_ dead lovers. The first wife of Carmichael Hubbard, Caroline was her name, was out one night. 1920s, you know, very prohibition-era gangster type stuff.” Andy leaned in for effect. “She didn’t like the business her husband was getting into; thought he was dragging down the family name. She confronted him... ol’ Carmichael killed her.”

Dean nodded, raising his eyebrows to seem interested. It wasn’t that he disbelieved Andy, but theatricality in ghost stories wasn’t really his style. “And the other? The other wife?”

Andy shook his head. “Not a wife. A lover. Hubbard got remarried the next year. A fiery thing from around Aurora. Jealous type, you know. I can’t remember what her name was—“

“Maryanne.” One of the men cut in without looking up.

“Maryanne,” Andy resumed his story, unperturbed. “Maryanne, and her jealousy was something to witness, according to the stories. Carmichael Hubbard don’t change his ways for anybody, least of all a woman, though. He’s still in the bootleggin’ business, but Maryanne isn’t going to take that lying down, no.”

Dean wondered how far out of town the bootlegging business went. It was possible the school was grounds for an old distillery. Old distilleries had a better chance of dragging up vengeful spirits than an average high school. He’d have to add it to his list of theories to check out at the library or town hall tomorrow. “How’d she do it?” He asked.

Andy grinned, shaking his head. “Knife to the throat, my friend.” He mimed cutting across his own throat with his thumb. “Straight across the jugular.”

Letting out a low whistle, Dean stood back up. “That’s quite a story. It’s always small towns, huh?”

“All kinds of craziness out here.”

“You said the school’s haunted too, though. What’s the deal with that?” Dean decided to press his luck a little further.

Andy scratched his head. “Well, that ones a bit more complicated. School’s only been there since about... 1968? It’s been kinda weird though. That one teacher at the beginning—he died early on. Been hard keeping teachers up there. Fancy, extra course kinda teachers, you know—electives.”

Electives certainly fit the MO Dean was looking for. “You’re talking drama teachers, like Castiel.” He hooked just thumb over his shoulder like he had just come from talking with Castiel, which he kind of had.

Andy nodded. “He’s been the youngest we’ve had in a while. In fact,” He called over to the pair of men. “Hank, how many drama teachers we have so far?”

Hank looked up and thought a moment. “Had to be at least twelve by now. Last eight years or so they really seem to come and go. Bad pay.” The three men nodded sagely at each other. 

Dean thanked the men for their time and his dinner before bidding them all goodnight. He walked back to the hotel with his sandwich stuffed in a pocket. The school still looked no different. Still dark, still gloomy. Still a school. He’d have to check out the Lincoln Manor in town the next day. He wasn’t positive, but if the ghosts here were related, there might be something bigger tying them together. The timelines weren’t quite right, but this town was too small to have two high profile ghost-producing murder cases tainting the history books. And if it was a drama teacher who wasn’t at rest, that puts a new shade on the spirit he’d seen in the theater. ‘Enemy to the arts’ the spirit had said. Clearly, the ghost didn’t appreciate everyday Philistines in his theater. If Castiel could help him get some information on this old drama teacher, he might be able to solve this much faster than he could on his own. At least he had somewhere to start.

And now he had a slew of questions for the current drama teacher as well.


	3. Obbligato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean begins the stakeout again, this time with company. The townspeople are... less than helpful.

Castiel pursed his lips critically as he looked him up and down. “You know, I don’t know if this is necessarily what I would call your best look.”

“You don’t know me long enough to know my best look,” Dean straightened out the cap that matched his navy jumpsuit in the reflection of a nearby trophy case. “Anyway, it got me in the door.” They were standing in the multipurpose room of Central City High the next morning. Students milled around in their usual morning activities—texting, frantically doing homework, and talking with buddies. Dean had most definitely kept the uniform from last night for his stakeout today. He was glad he’d had the foresight to cover the embroidered name with a strategically placed utility pocket protector.

Castiel crossed his arms. “Yeah, well I think Principal Adler had other things on his mind this morning than strange employees he doesn’t remember hiring. Did you hear? The ceiling started falling down last night in the theater?” His face pulled into mock-seriousness and concern.

“You don’t say?” Dean grinned. They started down the far hallway. The lockers here were the same dark green as the other accents around the building. Cardboard images of the school logo alongside posters bearing ‘CC Bison County’ explained the pile of buffalo cutouts Dean had seen the previous night. “Alright, enough horsing around. We gotta start somewhere. What do you know about the guy who had the job before you?”

“Not much,” Cas shrugged. “They hired me in August, after the start of the school year. Emergency opening they called it. Some of the kids mentioned the last guy had only been hired in March. He had to leave suddenly before a week had gone by in the new year.”

“That doesn’t seem weird to you?”

“I dunno, Dean. Things happen more than you think. When I was—“ he huffed, rolling his eyes like he knew a dig was on the way. “When I was _student teaching_ last semester, it happened to my cooperating teacher as well. They let me have the reigns in February because he had suddenly come down with mono or something.”

“You just got a string of bad luck following you, don’t you?”

“Apart from last night, I haven’t had any trouble.” Castiel narrowed his eyes.

“I saw one of your student’s... erm—masterpieces up by the light booth yesterday, dude. Someone out there is not your biggest fan.”

“Yes, some of the students don’t... like to listen to me all the time.”

Dean paused, waiting for the perfect comedic timing. “You know why, don’t you?”

“No, I... why?”

“It’s because you’re practically their age.” Dean said, gleefully accepting the shove into the lockers the remark earned him.

“Mr. Novak!” A voice came down the hallway, authoritative and nasally. “Kindly, do not assault our custodial staff, especially on his first day!” The principal stood, leveling them with a beady-eyed stare that was used to being obeyed.

“Sorry, Mr. Adler. Just tripped, is all.” Castiel said, grimacing at the frown Adler left them with as he went to discipline a student standing on a bench by the window.

Dean tutted at him, snickering as Castiel shook his head. “So, do you hang out in the theater all day or do you have a classroom?”

“My room is further down here in the south wing. You’re free to spend time in there if you don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“You don’t have any snooty theater kids in there right now?”

Castiel shook his head. “My advanced group doesn’t meet until second period, and then I have two classes of intro level drama before lunch.”

“Busy day.”

“It’s just study hall and sophomore English after lunch.” Castiel shrugged.

“I’ll pop around the office before lunch then, try to get some old staff records, and then maybe swing into town to look at the library.”

“Sure, um... I hate to ask—“

“What.” Dean felt like a rather big favor was coming his way. He didn’t put on tights for anybody—not even dumb, pretty drama teachers with blue eyes.

“It’s just—we have rehearsal after school again...” Castiel hesitated.

Nonplussed, Dean raised an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. “Okay?”

“I’m not, like—scared or anything,” Castiel scratched the back of his head. “But if the ghost were to come back, while I’ve got students on stage...” he trailed off.

“You want me to stick around for rehearsal?”

Castiel looked relieved. “I know it’s not what you had planned.”

“Yeah, I can probably do that. I’m not critiquing any of your dumb play though.” Dean still wasn’t sure what show he had seen, but didn’t have enough interest to find out.

“Oh no, you’re free to sit anywhere in the house.” Castiel stopped in front of a door that closely resembled the others in the hallway. A brass rectangle tacked to the door read his name. “And we’ll be done before five today. Just—y’know, a precaution.”

“Right. Afterwards, though we’re going to a restaurant in town, the Lincoln Manor. You said you wanted to help, here’s where you can help.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “The Lincoln Manor? What’s there?”

“Some guys down at the gas station said there was a ghost there, too. They might be connected in a town this small.”

Castiel frowned and nodded. “We also might try the library. It should be open until at least nine. Hopefully that should give us some time to look around.”

Dean agreed. Overhead, a tinny bell sounded, driving the throng of students bustling down the hallway. A few said hello to Castiel as they passed. Soon, they were left in an empty hallway.

“Well, time to go educate the masses?”

Cas nodded. “Will I see you at lunch?”

“Yeah, I’ll eat at your lunch table, dork.” Dean punched him playfully in the arm.

“Good luck, Dean—uh, John.” He said with a knowing look as he turned to open his classroom door. Dean caught a glimpse of a large Fahrenheit 451 poster on the far wall, as well as—Dean had to stifle a laugh—a life-size replica of what Dean was sure was Gandalf’s walking stick from Lord of the Rings.

Dean rolled his eyes. He used to do worse than bully kids like this in high school.

He set off the opposite way down the hallway, snagging a rolling trashcan from the lunchroom. Better to look busy than to be given a job. He was dedicated to his job, but he was no one’s janitor. Now that the bell had rung, there were very few students in the hallways. A few stragglers here and there hustled to class, often times followed by a teacher with a free period, ensuring the peace was kept. He smiled tightly at a man in an honest-to-god sweater vest and a woman with thick-rimmed glasses intent on staring him down. The library in this place wasn’t hard to find. Apart from the signage, there weren’t a lot of other places for the library to actually _be_. The hallway looked a lot brighter in the daytime, the sun streaming in the multitude of windows. Classrooms stood ajar, letting out snippets of conversation and lectures. Dean liked this part of high school. He didn’t so much care for being told what to read and when, but he enjoyed walking through the halls. It was very normal, and almost let him pretend he was here for much more normal reasons.

The librarian looked up when he entered, and immediately went back to her book cart. Fine by Dean, the less he had to actually interact with the staff, the better. He wandered over to a poorly-stocked periodicals shelf in the front, away from the front desk and the windows looking into the hallway.

There was one shelf with the local paper, but it seemed like that paper had only been started rather recently. The main source of news came out of Lincoln, from the _Journal Star_. Dean reached out and flipped through a few stacks, but was disappointed when the earliest date he could find was 1989. He needed to go older.

He glanced over at the librarian. He might have to interact sooner than he would have liked.

Dean approached the desk, where the librarian had pulled out a novel about the thickness of his forearm. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and had a pair of wire-frame glasses balanced precariously on top of a tight twist.

“Uh… Judy?” Dean glanced at her name tag. “Nice to meet you, I’m John Brown. I’m new.” He stuck out his hand. Judy Trench, head librarian, glanced up and squinted at him slightly as she fought to put her glasses back on her face.

“You’re a new custodian?” She asked. Definitely a pack-a-day type if Dean had ever met one.

He smiled. “Yes, ma’am. First day.”

She pointed at the far wall. “Trash cans are over there.” She went to pick up her novel again.

Apparently not all small towns lived up to the “Nebraska Nice” expectation.

“I’ll get to those right away. Actually,” he tried again, “I was wondering if there was another section of newspapers. Older ones.”

Judy the Librarian looked up again, scowl broadening the longer he talked. She sighed and put down her book. “We have a limited amount of microfilm available, but we’ll need to wheel out the machine for it and it’s in the basement right now. What are you looking for?”

“Just some local history, you know.” Dean smiled. “About the school?”

She wasn’t convinced. “Mr. Brown, if there’s something specific you need, I can help. I don’t have time to accommodate everyone who wanders through trying to set up a very expensive machine to look at ‘local history’ all day.”

Dean blinked. “Sure, sorry. I’ll—uh… get those trash cans now, yeah?” He backed away from her glare. He turned and walked quickly away from the library and its less-than-friendly staff. He’d go to Castiel’s room, and hide out to make a plan for later there.

He’d have to try his luck somewhere else.

…

Dean and Castiel shouldered into the Lincoln Manor after a ghost-free and (in Dean’s professional opinion) dully uneventful rehearsal. The wide bay window in the main seating area with stained glass inlaid hinted at its former occupation as the grandest hotel in Central City. Now though, kitschy knick-knacks ran along a ledge that circled the dining area, collecting dust that matched the thick layer covering the mirrors along the back wall. A pair of swinging saloon doors led to a darkened bar area where Dean could hear someone pretending to be good at piano in the next room. A pretty hostess met them when they approached the glass counter, heralding the room. She glanced up, eyes darting between Dean and Castiel under thick glasses. “Howdy, can I seat you boys?”

Dean leaned on the counter. Under the glass, various pamphlets and models of historical artifacts were protected from grubby fingerprints and even more dust. “Actually no, we were hoping you could help us with something?” He flashed her one of his friendlier grins.

The hostess blinked, and was suddenly all smiles. “What can I do for you?” She batted her lashes. Dean noted that her mascara was smudged underneath one eye, like she had wiped it with her hand. 

He turned up the charm. “I know it’s short notice, but we were wondering if the owner was available?”

She glanced between Dean and Castiel a little uneasily. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh yeah, just business… nothing serious.” He threw in a wink for good measure.

“Um… sure, I’ll go get him?” She picked up and put down a notepad, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with her hands.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

The girl flushed and disappeared around the hallway that cut across the back of the restaurant.

Dean swung around so he was facing Castiel again. Cas snorted. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“Do what.” Dean drummed his fingers on the glass counter. There were very few people under the age of 65 eating here at this time. Dean supposed more of the younger crowd hit up the Dairy Queen or the Subway he saw on the way into town.

“Flirt with them. Don’t people generally give you what you want, anyway?”

“Yeah, people don’t usually like talking to weird drifters who blow in askin’ about ghosts, Cas.”

Castiel huffed, “I don’t think you’re weird, it’s just—never mind.” He crossed his arms and looked away, smirking to himself.

“Aw shucks, Cas. You think I’m pretty.” Dean couldn’t resist teasing. Castiel usually flushed _so_ easily, and didn’t disappoint now.

Rolling his eyes, Castiel tossed his head a bit. “I think _you_ think you’re pretty.”

“You don’t think I have a pretty face? I’m hurt.” Dean reached out with his foot and nudged Castiel’s sensible brown oxford.

“Th—that’s not what I’m saying, I just think you lay it on a bit thick.”

Dean didn’t have time to grace Castiel with a witty retort of what else was thick. The hostess returned with a balding man in his early sixties at least. The man stuck out a wrinkled hand, dotted with liver spots, for Dean to meet. “Ron Kaiser, owner and manager. How are ya?”

“Kent Clarkson, doing great, thanks.” Dean shook the man’s hand. If Castiel was thrown off by the fake name, he didn’t show it. Dean gestured to Castiel next to him. “This is my buddy, lives in town, you might know him?” No reason for Dean to ruin Castiel’s relationships around town with a fake name to match.

Dean continued, “I’m new to the area, but I’m a business owner—looking for a good place for a franchise, and was hoping to get the lay of the land. Do you have a second to chat?”

“Sure thing—long as you don’t intend to be competition!” Kaiser laughed good-naturedly, slapping Dean playfully on the shoulder.

“Naw, used cars is my game.”

“Should give ol’ Harvey at Mustard Autos a run for his money then. Sure, let’s chat in the bar.” Kaiser jammed a thumb over his shoulder towards the saloon doors. “Should be plenty empty until after dinner.”

Kaiser led the three of them into the bar area, a cramped seating area pressed around a long L-shape counter. A pool table stood in the corner like it wasn’t sure it had enough room. Tube TVs hung in each corner of the dimly-lit space, and neon signs for various beers decorated the walls. The floors were carpeted with the same thick floral rug that ran along the hallways and dining room, but it was slightly dirtier here. It could have passed for dozens of small-town bars across America.

Felt like home for Dean.

They slouched into a booth after waving off Kaiser’s offer for a round on the house. Dean could tell Ron Kaiser was used to being well-liked around town, and went out of his way to show himself to others. He was a large man, the sort with a loud personality to match. “So, you wanna know about the CC? The rent rates? City’s pretty lenient if you get your paperwork squared away.”

Dean nodded cordially. “Oh, we’re considering a few places, few small towns like this. Seems like a good place to start a franchise, you know? How long have you lived here?”

“Lived here my whole life. My folks used to own the grocery store, back when this was still a hotel actually. Met my sweetheart, Geraldine, in high school.” He toyed with a thick silver band on his finger. “We’ve stayed here ever since. Nice town. Good people.”

Dean smiled. “No kidding? My buddy here tells me this is just a restaurant now, though.” He gestured to Castiel, next to him.

Kaiser nodded at Cas, “Yep, just an eatery now.” He squinted. “Say, you’re that new fella up at the high school, aren’t you?”

Castiel seemed surprised at the recognition. “Yes, I just moved here in August, but I’ve been here several times with friends. This place has a lovely dinner special, Mr. Kaiser.”

Kaiser put his hand to his heart. “Call me Ron, son. Whole staff does, we don’t do none of that ‘sir’ or ‘mister’ nonsense. But enough about me, what kinda business you turning out?”

To save Castiel gaping like a fish, Dean jumped back in. “We restore classic cars for a hell of a price. I’ve seen some of the motors people got in their driveways. Seems a shame to let them rust, you know?”

“You don’t say?” Kaiser raised an eyebrow, impressed. “I’ve got quite a few classic cars myself. Not here, mind you. Out on the farm, though... plenty of room.”

“You a Chevy man, Ron?” Dean couldn’t help but ask.

Kaiser nodded. “Got an old Cavalier out there—’89, and the frame for a Chevelle. She’s a beauty… even if she won’t start for nothing.” He chuckled.

“See, that’s what we hope to fix. Foster an interest in the classics, right Cas?” He glanced at Castiel, who nodded quickly. Dean sighed internally. He wasn’t sure this man beside him really knew what the fuck they were talking about.

“Mustard won’t like it, but he doesn’t deal much in muscle.” Kaiser leaned in like he was telling a secret.

“Gotta make friends where I can then, eh?”

“True enough… true enough.”

Dean drew attention back to his original goal. “This really is an old hotel, though? Gotta be some history here, right?”

“Oh, people talk. There’s a few around town who swear up and down this place is a murder house.” He waved his hand. “It’s all talk, really. The fellow before me, he stopped using the rooms upstairs about thirty—forty years ago, I bought it about fifteen ago. There’s an apartment upstairs, but no murder here that I ever knew of.”

Dean scowled. Well, this was a bust. “Really? Nothing unusual or weird about the place?”

Kaiser raised an eyebrow. “Not a thing. A few—what’re they called… bloggers show up every once in a while looking for a ghost story, but there’s nothing here.” The man said it with such surety, Dean was inclined to believe him.

“Well, that’s a shame. My buddy, Castiel here, promised me a ghost. Seemed like an interesting town to settle with a bonafide ghost in the works.”

Snorting, Kaiser waved his hand. “Don’t tell me you’re one to believe in ghosts, Clarkson. You’ll end up like those kids at the high school.” He pointed at Castiel, “This young man’ll tell you. Those kids spend more time cooking up ghost stories than doing their homework. Not by any fault of your own, a’course.” He smiled understandingly at Castiel.

Dean forced a chuckle. “Yeah, those teenagers. What were you saying to me, Cas? Didn’t some of them have some cockamamie idea about a ghost in their theater?”

Castiel blinked. “Y-yeah, they sure did. Told me I needed to watch out for the old man ghost that comes out at night.” He laughed nervously. Poor guy. First interrogations could be tough.

Kaiser laughed, throwing his head back. “That legend’s been around since I was at school. Those kids never change. Yeah, that’s the local spooky hotspot around town, you know. Ghosts…” he trailed off, wiping a tear from his eye. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up, if that’s what you’re after. That ghost is about as real as my wife’s sex drive, if you know what I mean.”

Dean was willing to bet Geraldine Kaiser wouldn’t live up to that comparison. “What a shame, what a shame. Well, thanks for your time, Ron. It’s been a pleasure.” He stood, prompting Castiel to stand up with him. Kaiser walked them back to the front by the glass desk. The hostess was off collecting dishes from a table nearby.

“Hope to see you ‘round the town soon, Clarkson. Ghosts or not, this is a mighty fine community, and it’ll treat you well if you let it.” Ron Kaiser let them go with a final wave as they walked back down the steps.

“So that was a bust.” Castiel slumped as he walked with his hands in his pockets, next to Dean.

“Yeah, Ron Kaiser is not very down with the spirits.”

“Not like us, right? Mr. Kent Clarkson?” Castiel nudged him with his elbow. “Do you do that a lot? Is Dean even your real name?”

Dean snickered and held up his hand. “Honest to god, Dean Winchester, at your service.”

Castiel stopped at the Impala, but turned around in confusion as Dean kept walking. He gestured for Castiel to follow as they ducked around the corner by the large gray two-story with a fucking _carriage house_ around the side where the owners must have parked.

A rusty fire escape touched down next to a door with a sign that said “Deliveries Wait Here.” The brick here was not so finely tended as in the front, and there were large sections that had been lost to ivy and crawling clover.

“You want to sneak in?” Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Ron said the place didn’t have any ghosts.”

“Yeah, he also didn’t think the high school had a ghost either, and look at that. The man isn’t who we want to talk to about ghosts.”

Castiel paused. “Then who do we ask?”

Dean tested the fire escape, and grinned when it didn’t creak and held steady. He looked around at Castiel. “Why don’t we see if there are any hotel guests from beyond the grave?”

…

The upper rooms of the hotel-turned-restaurant still had echos of their former glory. While some walls had been knocked down to create the main apartment, others were left in their former condition. The fire escape led to a small living room with a gas stove in the middle of it. Someone’s basket of crocheting sat in a cozy armchair off to the side. The decor was claustrophobic and frilly, giving Dean a good idea about what Geraldine Kaiser must be like.

Dean had instructed Castiel to keep a lookout at the fire escape entrance. Better for him to have a head start should they have to leave in a hurry. Dean didn’t want to feel guilty about getting Cas arrested for trespassing on top of everything else. He pulled a flashlight out and swept through the remaining rooms. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for—probably on the lookout for cold spots or weird smells more than anything—but he gave each room a cursory once over.

The intact rooms were still, dust nearly as thick here as it was downstairs. He tread lightly, so as not to be given away by any loose floorboards. Only one room was locked, easily bypassed with Dean’s picks, but even that room was a disappointment. A brass bedframe stood in the center, with an assortment of old boxes surrounding it. Dean poked through the top box half-interestedly.

A stack of old photographs lay inside. Dean held up a few family photos of a boy about five or six years of age clutching onto the arm of a girl who couldn’t have been more than a year old. The back of the photograph gave no indication of who they might be.

One photograph caught Dean’s eye. It looked like the high school, but in a much earlier time. The same boy from the picture before, stood in front of the building. He looked about ten here, and he stood alone, though smiling widely with a gap between two teeth. No little girl in sight. The school looked unmistakably similar from the front, but with significant differences. The trees around the area, what few there were, barely reached higher than the boy himself, and the building looked nearly new. Dean turned the photograph over. In faint, looping script was written _James C. Carnes, 1923._

1923… how old was the school?

Dean set that photograph aside and kept digging. A few letters, some tied with fragile ribbon, were also in the box. They seemed to be from this Carnes kid as the years went on. Dean unearthed a larger picture at the very bottom. It looked like either the world’s smallest class picture or maybe…

_Central City High - State One Act, 1928_ read the small letter board off to the side.

Dean easily spotted James Carnes, five years older now, but with the same gap in his teeth. He stood in a row of eight other students, each of them bathed in the same antiquity of the old photograph. While James was fifteen in this picture, the students ranged in age from what Dean would bet were baby-faced freshmen to seniors on the cusp of graduation. 

Taking a second to chuckle over the fashion trends of pre-World War II America, Dean saw something that caught his attention.

Not something, some _one._

Suddenly, Castiel was whisper-yelling his name as he came into the room, expression frantic. “Dean, I think Ron’s coming back up the stairs—”

Time for them to go, then.

He directed Cas to follow close behind as he peered around the corner into the hallway, making sure the coast was clear on their way back to the fire escape. He really didn’t want to have to hurt Kaiser, but he also didn’t want to have to deal with the police right now. A common wish with him.

Dean didn’t fully relax until his feet were back on the ground, and he knew Castiel was glad to be out of harm’s way by the way he kept repeating, _‘Please don’t make me do that again, Dean. Please.’_

“Hey, you did good for your first stakeout.” Dean punched him lightly on the arm.

Castiel tried to rub his arm surreptitiously. “Did you see anything up there?”

Dean pulled out the photograph from his jacket pocket. He smoothed it out and handed it over. “See for yourself.”

Castiel squinted at it, adjusting his glasses. “I don’t know what— _oh_.” His eyes widened. “Isn’t that…?”

“Looks mighty similar to the patron of the arts that had you by the throat last night, doesn’t it?” 

Flipping the photograph over, Castiel spoke. “It doesn’t give any other information as to who he is, does it?”

“No, but it looks like he’s probably the teacher or someone similar, right?” Dean held his hand out for the picture. James Carnes might have left his things in the hotel, but Dean was more interested in his drama dork club sponsor. “Guess that kinda explains why he was sweet on you.”

Castiel blanched. “You think he wants to hurt me because I’m the drama teacher?”

Dean shrugged. “That’s the best lead we have so far.”

“Where next?” Castiel asked.

“Someone’s gotta have an old yearbook lying around.”


	4. Cadenza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean’s starting to put some pieces together and Castiel adds to his criminal record.

“You’re telling me this place is better stocked than the stingy collection at your school?” Dean was only slightly suspicious of the small building. Most of it was taken up by a weirdly large computer lab right off the main lobby.

Castiel nodded. ‘What little we have here, anymore. This place was never the best for serious reading material.” He sighed as he heaved another pile to the table he and Dean had claimed in the farthest corner from the tiny circulation desk. The librarian had been too engrossed in filling out a spreadsheet on her computer to pay them much mind as they entered. The Central City library, like most things, was right off the main highway that ran through town. After leaving the Lincoln Manor in the most inconspicuous way possible, Dean was less-than-delighted to find that the town library was within literal spitting distance. In a town this small, his car had a tendency to stand out. Considering the police station was also nearby, Dean wanted to call as little attention to himself as possible. He had compensated by parking around the back in the grocery store’s parking lot, which would have to do in lieu of a better option.

“Hey, come on. It’s got newspaper articles, obituaries... hell, I’d even take a deed if it’s got a name on it. I gotta start somewhere, and right now I got a fat pile of nothing to go on.” Dean picked up the first book in his own pile of reading and got busy. They were looking for anything relating to the school—how old it was, staff members, anything. The school’s website wasn’t helpful at all, but instead gave Dean an excuse to pull up Castiel’s staff page to tease him for the dumbass quote he had chosen.

“So when we find a name…?” Castiel had pulled all the old city hall records he could find. The one he was working through was from 1925, and looked like it had actually been part of the city’s original construction. Castiel pulled gingerly at the pages, ignoring the clouds of dust the motion blew up.

“After the name, I gotta go track down either a living relative or some city records—find out where the fucker is buried.”

“And then?”

Dean looked up from his reading. “And then I torch him.”

Castiel visibly paled, and Dean tried not to smirk too obviously. “Not quite the high-tech operation you thought it would be, eh?”

“I guess I don’t know what I expected.” Castiel muttered in response.

Dean shrugged. “Honestly, I think when people think of hunting ghosts, they think more Ouija boards and burning sage.” Dumb kids biting off more than they could chew made up about half of Dean’s workload.

“Well, to be honest, I didn’t expect you to let me tag along.” Castiel grabbed another book, this one much dustier. “Almost expected you to shoot me right on the spot.”

“That option’s still open if it becomes a problem...”

Castiel snorted. “In any case, thank you for... letting me help.”

“It’s not a big deal.” Dean huffed. “You’re right—it’d be easier to get around if I know someone with keys, anyway.” As much as he’d hate to admit it to Castiel, he didn’t exactly mind the company either. Novak might not be experienced, but it was nice to be able to work with someone else.

“Sure. Thanks, though. All the same.”

Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed the next stack of newspaper print.

“So, do you like what you do?”

Dean stopped reading again. “Do I like hunting ghosts in high schools in small-town Nebraska?”

“I—yes.” Castiel blinked.

Dean shrugged. “It has its perks, I guess. Never in the same place for too long.”

“So you must see a lot of the country.”

“Yeah, there’s more work here in the midwest than in big cities, though.” It was true; Dean saw a lot more of the Great Plains than either of the coasts. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen the ocean. He hated the mountains the worst. A million places to hide, and it was usually cold.

“Los Angeles doesn’t have ghosts?” Castiel was apparently trying to get to know Dean or some shit.

“Oh, LA has its ghosts. Fewer people go missing or die as a result of those ghosts though. And anyway, I prefer it out here.”

“Did you always want to hunt monsters?” Dean could feel Castiel looking at him fully now, ignoring his book. He tilted his head and peered at Dean through his dorky black-framed Buddy Holly glasses like he really cared what Dean wanted to be when he grew up.

Dean shrugged, firmly trying to read the line in front of him. This book was definitely unhelpful but he wasn’t sure he could handle Castiel’s full attention. “Don’t know how to do much else.”

“You’re pretty handy.” At this, Dean looked up again and smirked. Cas blushed immediately to Dean’s private delight. “I mean, you seem pretty smart. You built that… electro—thingy.” Castiel waved his hand vaguely.

“Electromagnetic frequency reader.”

“Right,” Castiel nodded. “They don’t exactly teach that in shop class.”

“Yeah, but s’not like it’s hard if you know what you’re doing.” Dean shook his head and pulled the book closer, feeling heat creep up his neck.

“I—I’m just trying to pay you a compliment, Dean.” Castiel muttered. When Dean looked up again, he was readjusting his glasses.

Definitely blushing now. “Well, thanks Cas, but this business isn’t really one you have to try hard to break into.”

“It just seems more interesting than… what I do, for instance.”

Dean blinked. “Consider yourself lucky, dude. This life…” he gestured towards the window where his car sat waiting outside. His weapons locker, mode of transport, and sometimes house, encased in black metal. “This isn’t what I would want for myself if I could do it over.”

Castiel leaned forward. “But all the adventures you must have—the things you must see—!”

Dean cut him off. “Fuck no, it fucking blows, man.”

“Then why would you continue to do it?”

“Because there isn’t anyone else to do it.” Dean snapped.

Castiel shut his mouth and looked down, chastised. Dean immediately felt a little bad, but didn’t know how to explain his social hangups without feeling like a massive dipshit. It wasn’t like Cas was trying to make him feel bad or annoy him on purpose. He wasn’t even being rude in his questions—Dean was just sort of fucked up in general. Dean sighed and opened his mouth to stumble through an apology when Castiel pushed the book in his hands towards him.

“This at least talks about when the school was built. Do you know when this ghost started appearing?” Castiel immediately grabbed another book and devoted his full attention to it, leaving Dean open to the page he had found. The book looked like it might be better suited in some rich guy’s study. _Central City: A Walk in History_ was a fucking tome if Dean had ever seen one. It seemed to cover everything from a Native American skirmish on the original land to the 1980s.

Indeed, it looked like the closest thing they had gotten to a biography of the school and its builders. Built in 1917, it was part of the town’s short-lived “boom town” phase. Dean didn’t think this was saying much—but seeing as the town had both a movie theater and a library built in the same decade, it must have been a pretty big deal. There wasn’t much else available about the school. Considering it was over a hundred years old, though… that was promising. Andy, the guy at the gas station by the hotel, had misjudged the age of the school by a longshot. He was sure the ghost he had seen matched this time period. Could this guy really be a teacher from the original staff nearly a century ago?

Dean flipped forward a few pages. The theater in town looked promising, too.

“This movie theater off the highway, you ever been?”

Castiel shrugged. “There’s only two rooms—one upstairs for kid movies and one on the main level. They show two movies a week. Sometimes it’s the only thing to do in town. Is that haunted too?”

“I dunno. It used to run vaudeville shows though. That’s kinda interesting.”

“Maybe our ghost had an interest in some good ol’ low brow comedy?” Castiel tilted his head.

Dean was willing to find out if it gave them a lead.

…

Okay, so the state theater was definitely a bust, just like the Manor. Dean was man enough to recognize that, especially once they got there and spent approximately two seconds talking to the nice old lady running the concession stand. The place sold popcorn for _two dollars a bucket._ Castiel greeted her by name—because, of course he did. Trust Cas to know the old geezers in town—but Dean was busier surreptitiously running his scanner along some of the windows and doors. Flat out nothing. The old lady, Gladys, didn’t know of any weird deaths or strange occurrences lately either. She raised an eyebrow at their questions, but answered as best she could.

Stellar.

Castiel fell back into step with him outside of the theater, only a few people in line at 6:45 on a Friday night.

Dean’s stomach was already growling. “Man, I need some pizza or something.”

Castiel chuckled. “Well, in terms of the ghost, we’re running out of options.” He ran a hand through his already-messy black hair, further ruffling it up. Dean forced his attention across the street to the hardware store where its elderly shopkeeper was setting out a display of lawnmowers.

He sighed. “Someone has to know something about this guy. Teachers don’t just die without people asking questions.”

“I mean, is it possible he just taught until he couldn’t do it anymore and died?” Castiel asked.

“But why is he haunting the school, then?”

Cas shrugged. “Don’t all the ghost stories say people go back to where they had the strongest connection?”

“Not usually without good reason. A broken heart, lost object, unfinished business.”

“A broken heart…” Castiel stopped walking. “Dean, did you ever get the staff records from the office?”

Dean shook his head. “Never got the chance. Probably hit that up tomorrow if I can.”

“What if he was fired? What if that’s why he’s so stuck on the theater?”

Dean considered. Of course, that was the logical explanation. “That would explain why he’d go after drama teachers. He hates to see someone else at his job.” It probably would have taken his dad less than an hour to come to that conclusion. Dean was getting soft.

“Exactly. If you really loved what you do—“ Castiel looked thrilled at his own brilliance.

Dean clapped Castiel on the back. “Cas, that’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day. They’ll probably have records for that kinda thing dating way back, don’t you think?”

“Probably. Maybe in Adler’s office? He keeps a lot of data in there.” Castiel followed Dean back to where the Impala was parked around the corner. He stood across from Dean, but didn’t get in.

“He won’t let me poke around during the day. We’ll have to go after dark.” Dean slid into the driver’s seat.

Castiel ducked down to talk through the passenger window. “We?” His expression a bit disbelieving. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay, _I’ll_ have to, Cowardly Lion. Thought you were in on this?” It wouldn’t be difficult per se to get in without Cas, just a smidge harder than Dean was expecting.

“Well—it’s one thing to break into my boss’s office…” Castiel trailed off.

“You can keep watch outside if you’re scared.”

Cas shook his head. “No, I’ll go with you. I want to help.”

“Then we’ll go after ten, tonight.” He waved Castiel in the car. “Now... pizza?” Cas nodded his assent once he was seated and Dean turned the engine over, merging into the light early evening traffic on the highway.

This was the closest thing they had to a plan all day.

…

Now that they had direction, Dean found it much easier to pack for the job ahead. Dean ditched the jumpsuit, opting for his usual jeans and flannel. He didn’t bring much gear, just his lock picking set and a flashlight. He always had a few weapons tucked away in various spots on his person, nothing too dangerous, but enough to get him out of a bind. Castiel had shown up in a black sweatshirt and dark jeans like some kind of cat burglar and Dean had only barely kept from rolling his eyes. Together, the two of them had quite easily gotten past the front doors. Dean had to admit it was a lot easier getting his information when you could waltz right in.

Adler’s office was situated near the back of the administrative suite. The same bland oatmeal colored walls as the rest of the school were covered with various certificates and newspapers clippings of events around the city relating to the high school. The new football field, the band’s participation in the Orange Bowl, even the town’s lone National Honor Scholar in thirty years. It was like a shrine to academic mediocrity.

Stacks of papers overflowed from every horizontal surface. The filing cabinets were heavy enough that Dean had to tug a bit to get the drawers to open. Folders, labeled in a messy scrawl, filled each drawer with no discernible order, leaving Dean and Castiel to leaf through them aimlessly. Dean wasn’t sure where Adler would keep information on staff members, if he even kept records like that. The dust-covered, oversized 1980s desktop lording over the room in the corner and also covered with papers, however, made Dean pretty confident that he wouldn’t have to hack any computers.

“So what kind of dude is your boss?” He said as he pulled out a promising-looking folder titled ‘Staff Records’.

Castiel was across the room, searching through the tall bookshelves behind Adler’s desk. Not a single book resided on the shelves. Instead, each shelf was covered with either framed photographs, knick-knacks, or Central City Bison memorabilia. “He’s alright. Pretty okay, I guess.”

“No weird vengeances against anyone?” Dean dumped the folder, as it turned out to be only insurance information. “Secrets to hide?”

Cas shrugged. “Not sure if I would know that he did. He and I don’t talk much.”

Dean didn’t doubt that. His one impression of Adler’s relationship to Castiel hadn’t been very warm. He flipped through a few more folders, and sighed. He closed the drawer and moved on to the next one. Just as the last one had been, this too was stuffed with multicolored papers and manila folders of varying thickness.

Someone needed to tell Adler about saving the trees or something.

As he pulled out the first large folder, a thinner one fell out from behind it. Dean stooped to pick it up, and flipped the top open. He frowned at the first page as he straightened up.

“Check it out.”

Castiel looked up. “Weird staff records?”

“Employment schedules.” Dean flipped the page to find a list of names and dates. The rest of the folder seemed to be the same type of form. “When people get hired and let go.”

At the top of each page read a name, followed by the dates of their employment. There was space for a list of incidents incurred during the term of employment, as well as—Dean squinted—a reason for leaving.

“Why would he keep those?” Cas wandered closer with a stack of papers in his hand. It looked like he had given up on the bookshelves and moved on to the desk practically groaning under the weight of dead trees on top of it.

“Dunno,” Dean shrugged. “Looks like you’re the latest in a _really_ long line though.” About half of the stack in his folder read _Theater/Drama_ in the position field.

“How many?”

Dean flipped through a few more pages. “At least a dozen in the last ten years or so. Geez, it’s like the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”

“Never took you as a fiction reader...” Castiel chuckled.

Dean sneered. “Shut up.”

“Sorry. Does it say why they were let go?”

“Let’s see...” Dean focused on the bottom of each form as he paged through. There wasn’t a whole lot there, but was was there was concerning. “Accident involving injury... emotional distress... accident involving injury... oh shit, death... voluntary leave... “ Dean squinted. “Homo—wait, people can still get fired for being gay? Isn’t that illegal?”

Castiel shrugged. “Not surprising, I guess. I suppose they don’t come right out and say it anymore. Adler was a bit... impertinent in his questioning when he was interviewing me. I learned early on not to bring it up. Ever.”

“You sure it wasn’t because you look about twelve?” Dean elbowed him.

“I’m gay, Dean. Not a child.” Cas said frankly.

Dean coughed and rustled the pages in his hands to cover his sudden flush. “Anyway, it looks like one way or the other, each theater teacher has left here after a few months.” 

“That is pretty weird. What kind of accidents?” Castiel adjusted his glasses. Headlights from a passing car flashed by outside.

“Injury sustained... in the theater. Huh.” Dean cocked his head. This many injuries to a specific kind of teacher should have instigated a pretty wide investigation. He wondered how many people were covering this up, if they even cared to look at the patterns.

“And look at this.” Castiel sidled up close to Dean and opened the thick folder he was carrying, containing what appeared to be student injury reports. He shoved it towards Dean to give him a better look. On the very top was the latest one, entered for a student named Kevin Tran, the student Dean had heard about. He squinted at the page. The description of this injury section was less detailed than he could have hoped.

“How many of _these_ happened in the theater?”

Cas took the folder back and flipped through the stack. Dean pointedly ignored the fact that Castiel was still standing close to him, and _definitely_ ignored the heat he could feel coming off of the man. “It looks like despite a few football injuries... the majority of them.”

“And no one thought this was weird? Seriously, what is it with this town?”

“Well, no arguments there.” Cas looked at Dean, worry apparent in his eyes. “We have to tell someone about this, Dean. This is bad.”

A door opening and closing out in the main hallway startled Dean out of his focus. “Wait. What was that?” Footsteps of someone trying and failing to be quiet on the tile in the silent school could be heard coming towards the admin suite. 

Panic now, on Castiel’s face. “Adler?”

“Take the folder. We’re taking all this.” He closed his folder of staff reports and shoved it in his jacket.

Cas widened his eyes and flailed his hands. “We can’t steal these. These are official documents!”

Dean only just managed to snag the folder from Castiel’s hands and slip it inside his jacket alongside the other one before the office door opened and the two of them sprang apart.

Principal Zachariah Adler stood in the doorway, looking startled and annoyed at finding two staff members—well, one official staff member and one imposter—standing in his private office. He hesitated only a moment. “Okay, what’s the meaning of this? Mr. Novak?”

“Mr. Adler!” Castiel fumbled around, crossing and uncrossing his arms, sweeping a hand over his hair.

“What in blazes are you doing in my office?” Adler looked utterly nonplussed. “A better question—what the hell are you doing here at all?”

“I was just—we were...” Castiel swiveled his head between Dean and his boss.

“He had an expense report to drop off. I was just... cleaning.” Dean supplied, helpfully. He silently cursed not wearing the stupid jumpsuit. He should have known. Maybe he really was going soft.

Adler narrowed his eyes, hand still on the handle. “You’re that custodian. Jim, was it?”

“John, sir.”

“John. I thought Carla was on the schedule for tonight.”

Dean searched for a reasonable lie. “Uh, she cancelled. I’m just filling in.”

Adler frowned as he took in Dean’s jeans and leather jacket. “Be sure to wear the appropriate uniform. All staff must wear their approved name badges.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded quickly, like he had any intention of ever wearing that jumpsuit ever again.

“And Novak.”

Cas jumped to attention. “Mr. Adler?”

Adler pointed to him. “Stay out of my office after hours. You’re lucky I didn’t call the police like I first intended to.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Cas bowed his head. Dean held back a snort. Like the entirety of Central City’s police department—all three of them—would be much of a problem.

“We’ll discuss this tomorrow,” Adler continued. “Eight a.m. You have free period then, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Castiel answered in a small voice.

“Allow me to escort you both out of my office.” Adler stood aside from the door and held it open, gesturing for the two of them to leave. Castiel went through first, and even Dean could pick up on the tension held in his shoulders.

Before Dean could pass, very aware of the two thick folders pressed up against his torso, Adler stopped him with a hand to the shoulder. “And John... Smith, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Staff are not permitted in the administrative suite, especially my office. Understand?” Adler gripped his shoulder to make his point.

Dean shrugged out from underneath his grip. “Absolutely.”

Adler walked them both into the cafeteria. He looked at Castiel expectantly until he got the hint and started towards the main doors. Cas glanced back at Dean, widening his eyes. Dean shook his head and nodded towards the door. He’d meet up with Cas later.

“Bit odd, that one.” Adler said, leaning into Dean, once Castiel was out of earshot.

“Yeah,” Dean chuckled uneasily. “Drama teachers, right?”

“Something about him. Not that I’m a bigot or anything, but you know... sometimes these liberal types... bit strange what they get up to in their private time.”

Dean blinked.

“I’ll leave you to your work, Smith. Remember to leave the trash can by my desk, won’t you? Carla should have told you that.”

“Sure thing.”

Adler strode off down the hallway, keeping an eye on the main doors. Dean could only imagine how Castiel’s morning meeting with him would go.

Dean waited until Adler was well down the hallway before bolting out the main doors after Castiel. He didn’t want to be around to either run into whoever Carla was, or be around when Adler did and questioned why she wasn’t at home.

As expected, Castiel was hovering by the Impala when he rounded the corner of the school and crossed the parking lot. He was standing with his head resting against his arms, folded underneath him. He jumped when Dean called out to him, and flinched when he set the large stack of paper from his jacket on the hood next to him.

“He’s going to fire me.” Castiel bemoaned, dropping his head right back down to his arms.

Dean shrugged. “He doesn’t know anything.” He leaned back against the car next to Castiel. For November, it was a bit chilly, but nowhere near as cold as he knew Nebraska could get. He wasn’t looking forward to the bitter cold December and January could unleash. Maybe he’d set out for the South before that hit.

“He will if he goes back to his office. I took that folder right off his desk.”

“I got a look at his desk. He won’t notice it unless he goes looking for it.” Dean pushed off the car and headed around to the trunk. “Dude’s a bigger packrat than my dad, and that’s saying something.” Popping the trunk, he rifled around one of the duffels full of weapons. He’d probably have to make a few more salt rounds before they went and actually tracked the ghost again. He didn’t relish the idea of Castiel getting throttled against the wall by the spirit again, and he was sure Cas wouldn’t either.

“He’s going to ask me what I was really doing there, Dean. I don’t have a good answer for him.”Cas was clearly torn up about this. It really could be tough for the newbies in this business.

Dean sighed. “Look, just don’t make it a big deal. Just say you really did have an expense report to hand him and it couldn’t wait until morning.”

“What if he asks for the expense report?” Castiel fretted.

“Blame it on the piles of shit on his desk.”

Cas frowned. “Dean.”

“It’ll be fine, Cas. Just don’t act suspicious. He doesn’t have anything and he knows it. He probably just wants to scare you.”

Castiel sighed. “Right. Well, at least we got some information. That should help right?”

Dean nodded. “It’ll take some time to go over these. I’d like to see Kevin Tran in the hospital too, see what he knows.”

“I’ve spoken to his mother. He’s doing much better.” Castiel straightened up and cocked his head. “He’ll be ready to come back to school in a week or two.”

Dean checked his watch. “You heading back home?” It was nearly midnight. Theirs was the only car in the lot. Adler must have parked in the visitor spots closer to the front door. Lazy fucker.

“Are you going to bed?”

“Nah, I‘ll probably grab a six-pack of something and go through these.” Dean gestured to the stack on the hood.

Castiel fidgeted with his hoodie string. “Would you... like to come over? We can go through them... together if that helps?” His face was so hopeful that it made Dean blink.

Dean should say no. He should definitely say no. He should laugh and clap him on the back with a _Thanks, but no thanks._ He should turn his back on Cas’s stupidly handsome face and tell him he doesn’t swing that way. He should say he has better things to do than hang out with dorky drama teachers. He should under no circumstances, absolutely not say—

“Sure. Sounds fun.”

Castiel’s face brightened, bringing about ten shades of light into his already luminous eyes. He gathered the slew of papers across the Impala’s hood and hopped in the passenger seat. Dean swore silently to himself, before getting in the driver’s seat.

It was going to be a long night.


	5. Libretto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress is made!

Castiel’s place was one of the only apartment buildings in town. _Building_ was probably a strong word, as Dean was sure it only held a maximum of four apartments total. Maybe six if there was a basement. Set across the street from the grocery store and an authentic-looking Mexican restaurant Dean was dying to try, Cas’s building was like most others in town—squat, historic, covered in a brick facade, and fighting a losing battle against some ivy.

Dean parked in the street near the front door, behind Castiel’s ugly tan Continental. “Must be a quick commute in the morning.” He mentioned.

Cas nodded. “Only about ten minutes on a busy day.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys with a big plastic yellow tag. As they walked to the door, stacks of paper in hand, an orange tabby _mrrrrrow_ ’d from the bushes and stepped out in front of them. Cas cooed at the cat as he unlocked the door, but brushed it gently aside with his foot. Dean sneezed, and Cas looked up apologetically. “Sorry, he’s not my cat. He’s a neighborhood stray that I feed sometimes.”

Dean waved his hand and pinched his nose. “S’long as I won’t have it in my lap when I’m trying to read.”

The hallway inside the building was fairly standard. Too-dim lightbulbs flickered gently, illuminating utility carpet and open slat stairs leading up to the second level. Cas turned immediately to his left to unlock the door there.

“You know your neighbors?” Dean asked awkwardly, trying to be conversational. It wasn’t often he was in someone else’s apartment either for sex or bearing bad news. Sometimes both.

Cas shrugged, throwing his keys on a small table to the side of the door. “One of the other teachers lives through that hallway.” Castiel gestured to a door set near the stairs. “She’s pretty nice. The guy across the hall works nights, I think.” He took off his coat and tossed it over the chair by the window. As he carried his stack of papers from Adler’s office to the kitchen table, Dean looked around the space.

The apartment was a lot larger than some he would have found in bigger cities. Dean was willing to bet he got a pretty good price on rent for it as well in a place like this. The living room greeted the visitor with a plaid couch, a few chairs, and—to Dean’s delight—an old record player with stacks of worn vinyl beneath it. A bedroom peeked out from behind a door off to the side with a bed dressed in navy sheets, rumpled like someone had just gotten out of it. The kitchen led off the living room with a wide wood table sitting in front of it. Castiel had spread out the papers they’d stolen across its surface. The student injury reports, along with the teacher leave files from Dean’s hands made a pretty impressive pile. They’d be lucky if Adler didn’t notice something was missing, but with the state of his office, Dean was willing to bet it would take a lot more for the man to notice.

Cas shuffled through his stack, licking his finger to page through the reports. “I think I was supposed to write one of these when Kevin got injured. Adler told me he’d take care of it.”

Dean frowned as he leaned closer over Cas’s shoulder. “Was there anything suspicious about him then?” If Adler knew more about the theater than he let on, he might be a suspect.

Shaking his head, Cas flipped to the back of Kevin’s page. “He seemed like he was being nice about it. I’m not even mentioned as the on-duty teacher on the report.”

“Maybe that’s on purpose?”

Cas shrugged. He squinted at the cramped writing on the paper. “Adler’s description doesn’t have a lot of detail anyway. It looks like he barely spoke to Kevin about what he saw. It doesn’t mention him getting pushed or anything.” Castiel snorted. “It just says he fell.”

Dean grabbed the folder and took another report at random. Hollis Jones from 1994 had experienced a similar accident to what he had heard about Kevin. Accidentally fell. Student reported being pushed. No witnesses or suspects. Student healing in the hospital. “Well, at least not all the kids die from this thing.”

“Maybe it’s just random, then. No rhyme or reason to it, the ghost just doesn’t want people in the theater?” Cas asked.

Dean was skeptical. “We still don’t know who the teacher is though. All we have is a blurry photo and a year. We need an M.O. to be sure. And to make sure he doesn’t kill anyone else.”

Castiel pursed his lips. “Do you still have that photograph?”

Dean pulled out the drama club picture he’d found in Ron Kaiser’s attic. The 1928 One Act team stared out at them, faded in its age. Cas brought it closer to his face under the dining room light.

“I mean, this is definitely who we saw. Same face, same… weird facial hair.” Cas sighed.

Nodding, Dean pulled his folder of teacher reports closer. “It’s too bad none of these come with pictures. Alright, let’s make a list of names.” He opened the folder and shuffled back. Luckily, disuse of the folder meant that it was more or less in chronological order, with each new case simply getting dropped on top and put away until it was needed again.

“Alright, 1928… only two teachers left that year. One bio and one history.”

Cas tilted his head. “It’s still possible for them to coach One Act. There’s no rule against it, and in a school this small, not unlikely.”

Dean frowned as he read. “The bio teacher probably isn’t who we’re looking for. Nancy Williams doesn’t strike me as this dude’s name. History… maybe.” He grabbed a napkin and fished a pen out of the small cup of odds and ends sitting on Cas’s counter. “We’ll jot down Harvey Greene and do some more digging.” He flipped forward a few more pages. 1929 was a similar situation, only a handful of teachers leaving, but nothing suspicious. One left because of pregnancy, and another left due to enlistment. 1930… shit.

“Cas, look at this.” Dean pushed the stack across the table. “After 1930, the deaths start spiking, look—“ He paged through a dozen or more reports. “1931—four teachers gone, three because of death; 1932— _six_ gone, and all of them due to death. What the hell?”

“You think he’s one of them?” Cas straightened his glasses. “You think he’s one of the deaths?”

Dean shook his head. “No, I think he’s the one causing the deaths. The descriptions are too bizarre.” One teacher was reported dying in a lawnmower accident while on the grounds in the morning before school. Another was killed by a masked intruder after hours. Yet another—yes, this was it. “This is the first drama teacher death. Lonnie Oswald—taught both music and drama—committed suicide in the theater in March of 1931. Employee since— Cas, this has to be our dude.”

Castiel grabbed the napkin and wrote down the name. He looked up, light flashing off his glasses. “Lonnie Oswald. You think people would have talked about him more. That’s pretty dark for a high school.”

“No kidding. Old man ganks himself inside the school building? That’s grounds for at least some news coverage.” Dean took his phone out of his pocket and ran a quick internet search with _Central City_ behind the name. Thanks to his shitty service out here in the middle of Nebraska, it took a while for the results to load, but even when they did, it wasn’t encouraging. There were only a few dozen results, and nothing written past 1932. A grainy image of an obituary likely scanned from some grandfather’s ancient collection of decomposing newspapers, as well as a link to the Central City One Act page were the most helpful. He put the phone on the table so Cas could see it as well. When he leaned in, Dean caught a tang of something spicy and warm like cinnamon and clove hanging off Castiel’s skin at this proximity. Dean shook his head.

“Clearly, the dude wasn’t known for making headlines.” Dean said.

Cas pulled the phone a bit closer. “We’re probably lucky for getting this much. No pictures?”

Dean shook his head. “Image search has nothing but some pictures of the school. Unless—“ he got back to the search bar and typed in _Lonnie Oswald Nebraska One Act_. The spinning loading circle started up again.

“What is One Act anyway?” He asked.

Glancing up, Castiel cleared his throat. “It’s a theater production, but smaller. You get about thirty minutes to do your show, and you compete with other schools. Most schools pick serious or avant-garde shows, but some schools do pretty well with funny ones.”

“You’re gonna take those kids on the road? No offense, Cas, but they’re…” Dean trailed off, not knowing how to not sound exactly as offensive as he was trying not to be.

“They’re not very good. I know.” Castiel chuckled. “I don’t think Central City has won in a long time, if ever. The board was even thinking about not competing and saving money for a number of years, but Adler wins them over every time.”

“Damn patron of the arts, that one.” Dean grumbled, turning back to the results on the phone screen. There were a few more here, links to schools around the area, reviews of productions that schools had put on, even—

“Look there,” Cas jammed his finger at the third link from the bottom. Only four pages of results, not looking good. “It’s a memorial page.”

Dean clicked on it, the ugly tan and white background of the page filling his screen. It looked like it was a part of the Nebraska One Act association main page, but it was dedicated to people that had died over the years that were related to the program. At the top, was a large black and white picture of a man with an impressive mustache. Henry James had established the practice at the national level in 1913, but it hadn’t reached the Nebraska schools until about seven years later. Dean scrolled down. A lot of people were listed on this page. Some of the bigger towns like Lincoln or Omaha, even Kearney, had eight or nine people listed, along with the various honors they had collected over the years. On and on, dead person after dead person, but no sign of their spectral friend.

“You nerds have quite the history.” Dean smirked.

Cas shoved him lightly. “I shouldn’t even be counted as one of them. I’m a speech teacher.”

“You’re a drama dork too, Cas. Some have greatness thrust upon them.” Dean said, sagely.

Rolling his eyes, Cas refrained from commenting. But also because… “What’s that?”

Sure enough, near the bottom—damn near the end—was a tiny entry, only a paragraph long, alongside a familiar looking picture.

_In memorium: Alonzo Oswald, 1888-1930. Born in Greeley, NE, Oswald pursued his dream of theatrical performance for many years in New York, NY. Towards the end of his life, he turned to educating students to fulfill their own dreams at a small school in rural Nebraska. He was the first to start the One Act program in Central City in 1928, leading them to moderate success in the first Class C district competition. Tragically, he took his own life in 1931. Memorials can be made to the high school at—_

Alongside the modest entry was a blurrier shot of the very one Dean had sitting on Cas’s tabletop.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean breathed. “This is him. It’s not much, but this is unmistakably him.”

Cas picked up the picture again. “That must be why they went to the trouble of taking a club picture at all. They were celebrating. But he wasn’t.” The Oswald in the picture looked much different with this perspective. Instead of a do-good teacher, he was a failed actor, turned to teaching by his own misery. “Oswald must have really struck out in New York if he came all the way back here.”

That would make for a suitable alibi. Man chases his dreams to New York, and when he fails miserably, has to come all the way back home, probably getting jeered by his classmates along the way. He’s miserable as a teacher, and takes it out on himself in a permanent way.

“We have to find out where he’s buried.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “How do we do that?”

Dean considered. The other obit they had found was too grainy to make anything out. If this was the only legible record of Oswald’s life, they could be in deep trouble.

He searched up _Alonzo Oswald Central City_ on his phone this time. Cas left the kitchen briefly and came back with a heavy black laptop that wheezed into life when he pressed the power button. He navigated as quickly as he could to the same One Act memorial page Dean had been on and squinted at it, the page reflected in his glasses. Dean got lost for a second in the way the blue light from the screen illuminated his high cheek bones. Goddammit. He was not getting a crush on this nerdy dude in small-town Nebraska. He was leaving as soon as this case was over, and—

“Do obituaries normally tell you where they’re buried?” Cas interrupted his unwelcome train of thought.

Dean blinked. “Sometimes. You find that shitty-as-hell scanned copy?”

Castiel leaned in close to the screen, his nose practically smudging the glass. “I think ‘find’ implies that I can make heads or tails of what I’m seeing.”

Turning back to his phone, the results weren’t much better. City death records only went so far, and the town had a dozen or so boneyards in and out of municipality. If they were doing this Dad’s way, he and Sam would take one cemetery while Dad took the other and they could be up all night. If the guy died in 1931, the headstone could be so crumbled and decrepit by now, it’d be nearly impossible to read.

He scrolled, cursing their luck. This might take longer than he thought, and someone else could get hurt in the meantime.

“Wait,” Cas leaned back. “Is he—? Gross. Look.” He turned the laptop towards Dean, twisting the dumb fabric placemat that was sitting on the table with it.

Dean had to rub his eyes and lean in close to see what Cas was looking at. He had blown up a small section of the grainy obituary and adjusted the contrast of the screen. He felt a bit like a old man historian looking through Dead Sea Scrolls. Just barely legible, in loopy handwriting, was an entry by _Place of Burial_. It was an address.

“1510—isn’t this the school’s address?” Dean cocked an eyebrow.

Cas nodded, grimly. “I thought it might be a mistake. I was _hoping_ it was a mistake.”

“Huh,” Dean leaned back. “What kind of big-shot do you need to be to be buried at a public school? Is that even legal?”

Cas shrugged. “Probably not, nowadays. We’ve been walking over his corpse for days and we didn’t even know it.”

Dean chuckled. “Thems the breaks I guess. Okay, so…” he took a breath. “We have to go disinter a body from the grounds of a very public school building. Great.”

“What if it’s not there?” Cas asked.

“Then we’re back to square one.”

…

The November air seemed much chillier at midnight, Dean thought as he shivered under his jacket. He had hoped the digging would warm him up, but so far he was just as cold as he was before, but now with blisters on his hands and dirt under his nails.

Unwilling to face an interaction with innocent passerby two times in one night, Cas had pleaded to let the issue rest until the next night. Dean had acquiesced, more interested in the beer Cas offered him before heading back to the hotel for the night. Today though, after another today of school, after pretending to mop while Cas had his “meeting” with Adler, they were back to the ghost-hunting gig and out here doing what Dean did best. The EMF reader had come out again, and they had followed its shrill sound to the middle of the football field, because _of course_ it was under the football field. Dean had to admit, it wasn’t that surprising though. The field had a near perfect circle of dead grass that was nearly a perfect giveaway. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before.

Cas stood above him, with strict orders to _hold the flashlight steady or take the damn shovel_. He was doing his best to follow the former.

“So he just really wanted himself buried at the place that made him commit himself?” Castiel wondered aloud.

Dean didn’t have the breath for more complete sentences between all the digging, “Looks like it. ‘Splains why he’s mad.”

He dug for a few more minutes—though it seemed like hours—until he hit a strange texture in the dirt. “Look at this.” He moved to the side so Cas could see, taking a second to get his breath back.

Dean had dug until he found a rectangular pine box, about six feet long. The corners had rotted away and the whole texture looked termite-eaten and soft. He nudged the box open with his toe, an easy feat with its age, and inside were a pile of bones. “Surprised they let him get buried here without cremation.”

“It was a different time.” Cas said, wrinkling his nose. “What now?”

“Now?” Dean reached in his pocket, searching for his lighter. “Now, we torch the sucker.”

Cas opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off.

“Castiel Novak!” Came a much-too familiar voice from somewhere over Castiel’s shoulder.

“Oh my god.” Cas whispered. Dean looked up from his place in the hole. in time to see all the blood drain out of Cas’s face and his eyes widen as he looked behind him.

Fuck, Dean knew it was too easy. Dean hoisted himself out of the hole and brushed some of the grave dirt off his clothes. Sure enough, a portly figure was stalking across the field towards them, fists clenched and quivering with rage, even at this distance.

“Stay calm, I’ll handle this.” Dean assured Cas. He really was batting for the stands with getting Castiel in trouble with his place of employment.

“Mr. Adler.” Castiel greeted him, overly-cheerful when Adler got to them.

Adler advanced, getting right in Cas’s face, spittle flying. “I told you to stay away after hours.”

“You did—“ Cas tried to back up.

“What is the meaning of this?” He waved his hands towards the very open hole in the ground with the very visible box and pile of bones.

Just like the last time they were confronted, Cas looked to Dean for help, “We were just—there’s a perfectly good explanation—“ Dean tried to cut in, but was silenced suddenly. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say, he just… couldn’t? Weird.

“There’s a reason you’re digging up the football field?”

“Yes—“

“Why you’re digging up a grave?”

“Well—“ Castiel was backpedaling as fast as he could. Adler advanced towards him, face nearly purple.

“You shouldn’t be digging up things you are no match for.”

Castiel paused, “I—what?”

Adler wheeled towards Dean, “I know who you are, hunter,” He jammed a finger at Cas. “This one, however, doesn’t need to know our business.”

Suddenly, gears clicked into place in Dean’s brain, and all he could say way, “Oh shit.”

“Mr. Adler—?” Cas was suspicious and walking way too close to Adler for Dean’s comfort.

Dean tried to warn him. “That’s not—“

Castiel suddenly flew across the practice field, hitting a poorly-placed oak tree that was likely older than the field itself. He crumpled to the ground and didn’t move immediately. Dean took a step back to go to him, but Adler zipped across the field to appear right in front of Dean. He found himself hoisted into the air by his jacket, staring down into the lined and furious face of the principal. The man’s eyes looked funny, not that they were significant in any way before, but now they looked—empty… washed out.

“You hunters mess around with what you have no understanding of!” He threw Dean a distance away with strength no middle-aged man could possess. He landed badly on his ankle, a tell-tale _crack_ that had him wincing. Dean tried to scramble to his feet, but was dragged back by a steel band around his injured ankle and he was left scrabbling at the dirt. Cold hands grabbed him again, holding him up.

“—what you have no compassion or respect for!” Adler shouted. He was thrown again. He hit the ground a little harder this time, the breath gusting out of him. He patted his pockets. His salt gun was several feet away and he had no chance of getting it from here. No blades, no nothing. Everything he could use to fight was strewn across the field from both his digging and getting tossed around like a volleyball. His ankle was starting to burn as well, indicating a sprain at best. He glanced back at the tree wildly and saw that Cas still hadn’t moved. Fuck, if he had gotten Castiel killed too on top of everything, he was gonna be _pissed._

Adler stalked over to him. “You don’t know why we do what we do.” He grabbed Dean again, so forcefully that his head jerked back, and held him up. He was slammed against the chain link fence nearby, the links cutting into his exposed skin and likely tearing up the back of his jacket. He tried uselessly to unlatch Adler’s fingers, but he was effectively trapped.

There was a wild look in Adler’s eyes, hyper-focused and sharp, but so unlike the man that Dean had to wonder— “Oswald?” He gasped as fingers clamped down on his throat. “Y-you’re… possessing him?” He choked out around Adler’s hand.

Adler snarled at him. “Learned a few tricks in my decades here. It is a learning institute, after all.” He moved his other hand from his jacket to his throat as well, so he was effectively being held by his neck by a murderous ghost in a principal’s body.

Dean was starting to see muggy stars, he wasn’t getting enough air. Just before he was sure this was where it all ended—goodbye Cas—a shot rang out and he slumped to the ground.

For a crazy second, Dean was sure he was dead. His eyes sprang open and he heaved himself to his feet when it was apparent he was not in fact dead. Adler was on the ground in front of him, unconscious but still alive. The spray of ugly bruising on his left cheek indicated that. A gray mist hovered briefly over his prone form for a few seconds before dispersing gently. He hoped that meant the ghost had fucked off long enough for him to burn the bones. Dean swung his head around to see—mother _fuck_ —Cas standing a few feet away, holding Dean’s salt gun shakily in his hands.

“Are you alright?” Cas asked breathlessly, bruises on his temple and blood on his knuckles. Dean would be willing to bet he got the wind knocked out of him and was fighting a killer backache. He was more than relieved that Castiel apparently okay enough to be standing, though. He was choosing to ignore the rather loud bit of him that was noticing how fucking hot Cas looked with a firearm.

He staggered over to where Cas was standing, and took back his gun, stowing it on his holster. “I’m good. You good?” He checked him over, and with the relief of both himself and Cas being alive, he couldn’t resist pulling him in for a quick, manly hug, mindful of both his own injured ankle and Cas’s probably-bruised back. “Thanks for saving my ass, man.”

“I have no idea how to shoot a gun.” Castiel fretted as they pulled apart.

Dean chuckled. “Dude, I know. You got no stance, and I bet you weren’t aiming for his head, were you, Sundance?”

“I killed my boss.” Cas whimpered, wringing his hands.

“Nah, you didn’t. It was a salt round, not a bullet.” Dean limped carefully back over to where Adler was laying. “He’ll be okay. Probably thank us for getting the ghost outta him.”

Cas moved to his side, crouching down. “Oswald possessed him? I didn’t know ghosts could do that.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s pretty uncommon. He seemed to know who I was though. At least what I do.”

“You mean he didn’t think you were a janitor?” Cas glanced at him, and raised his eyebrow, teasing him. Now that they weren’t dead or dying, maybe Dean could convince him to have a drink. The bars were likely still open, and Dean was desperate to see what kind of drunk Castiel was. They could torch the body, scatter the ashes, and probably still make last call.

Dean stood and made his way over to the open hole where a pile of bones lay in the dirt. There wasn’t much left of the guy, but enough to burn. He looked around and spotted his Zippo and small bottle of lighter fluid lying a few feet away. He fumbled it from the ground, grimacing as his ankle twinged uncomfortably—probably not broken, thankfully—and gingerly made his way back to the hole. He doused the remains in lighter fluid before pulling a crumpled bit of paper out of his pocket. He lit it on fire, and dropped it into the hole, lighter fluid covering the bones in flames quickly.

When he turned and hobbled back, Cas was checking over Adler’s vitals, making sure he was still breathing. “How long was he— like that?”

Dean shrugged. “Hard to tell. If this ghost was possessing people, that complicates our timeline a bit. Hopefully he’s gone for good, but I’d still like to make sure. Like to talk to Kevin, too.”

“How do we check?”

“Gotta run the ol’ EMF in the theater again.” Dean kicked at some of the dirt and grass they had kicked up. His jacket was probably scratched to hell after all that. “We won’t do it tonight. We’ll finish torching the body and everything, but we can check tomorrow. Probably get a drink or something.”

“Yes, it’s been a—a ride hasn’t it. Then you’ll probably leave after that?” Cas didn’t look at him, but Dean wasn’t so stupid as to miss the sad tone. Aww, someone was going to miss him.

Dean rolled his eyes, fighting a smile. “Have a drink with me first before you start your goodbyes, ya big sap. You earned it.” He punched Cas in the arm playfully.

“Ouch, that—“ Castiel was cut off when Adler stirred beneath his hands. Normally, Dean would be all for tugging Cas away to distance themselves from the scene of the crime, but Adler had already seen them, and it would be much harder for Adler to explain that to himself alone.

“Novak…” Adler started blearily. His eyes were back to the watery green they had been.

“Mr. Adler,” Cas’s hands fluttered over him as he tried to stand, trying to help, “You’ve had a fall—“

“I know what I had, Novak.” Adler brushed himself off as he stood. “I had you at my school, after hours again?” He looked around, attention caught by the huge pile of dirt and the slowly dying flames in the hole beside it. Dean thought he was going to end up on his back again with the pained noise he made.

“We found—“ Castiel tried again. Dean wondered how he could get Cas away from here before any authorities showed up. He could take the fall for this, no problem. He was very unwilling to let Cas get arrested for this.

“I catch you in my office yesterday, and now?” Adler plowed on, angry as hell. “And you were setting fire to the football field, no doubt causing hundreds of dollars of damage. I thought I made myself perfectly clear in our discussion _this morning_ , Castiel. Or did you forget?” As he yelled and raged, Castiel looked down, ashamed. Dean’s heart tore, it was his fault Cas was in this mess. He tried to step in, gripping Cas’s sleeve to pull him behind himself.

Adler continued, unaware, “You’re lucky I don’t call the police, and you—“ he turned his accusing finger on Dean, who jumped at the sudden attention. “I don’t know who you are, but you and Novak are barred from ever entering this school again.”

Cas twitched in Dean’s hold. “Y-you can’t mean—“ he was quiet, like he feared the worst.

“You’re fired, Novak!” Adler looked positively gleeful now in his rage. “I see now that hiring you was a grave mistake on my part. Vacate the premises immediately, or I’ll—“

“Got it, we’re gone.” Dean hurriedly tugged at Castiel’s sleeve, who looked close to tears. He pulled the man away, leaving the principal of the high school clumsily stamping out the last embers of a fire burning the remains of a homicidal ghost behind them.


	6. Toreador

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bonus for you lovely readers! 
> 
> Note: This is where the story earns its rating, so if that's not your jam, feel free to skip.

Dean thought they were lucky they made it back to where they had left the car by the small park a few blocks away before Cas started freaking out.

“I’m—I’m fired.” Castiel said to himself, the dozenth time in about three minutes. “Adler fired me—and…?”

Hoping that Cas wouldn’t start crying was beginning to look less likely by the minute. Dean was at a loss of what to do that would make him feel better. He awkwardly patted the man on the back. “Sorry, Cas. That’s messed up.” He knew he should take the blame for this, and he did, but he didn’t know if it would make Cas feel any better.

“I shouldn’t have come with you—I _knew_ I’d get caught.” Cas babbled to himself. He’d been pacing for the better part of the fifteen minutes or so they’d been here, and Dean thought he was working himself up too much for having been thrown into a tree today.

Dean tried again. “I’m sorry I asked you to come, man.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I really am. If it’s any consolation, we got the ghost, though.”

“Maybe!” Cas threw his hands up in the air. “And I lost everything because of it. I—I…”

Pursing his lips, Dean cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s being a bit overdra—“

“No, it’s not overdramatic!” Cas whirled and pointed at him. “Because what else do I have, Dean? Where else can I go after this?” Cas had a crazed look in his eye, like he’d been holding back before.

Dean sighed tiredly. “There are other schools, man.”

“That’s not always the case.” Cas went on, working himself up into a full rage. “Do you know what I had to do to get this job? It’s not that easy for me to just walk into a school and get a job.

Nonplussed, Dean shook his head. “What do you mean, just teach.”

“I’m gay, Dean.” Cas swung around. Eyes blazing and chest heaving. “The only reason I got this job is because my great aunt was on the school board.”

“Cas, come on…” Dean trailed off. He was immensely sorry Cas had gotten fired, but he didn’t see the point in getting this worked up about a small-town job like this. Cas could easily get hired somewhere else. Maybe somewhere that respected their teachers a bit more not to set them loose with bratty kids and a haunted theater. It would probably do Cas some good to get out of this town. 

“No, this was… this was my last shot.” Castiel stopped pacing and stared down at the pavement between his shoes.

“You’re like twenty-four, don’t make this something it ain’t.”

Cas looked up suddenly, clearly on the verge of tears. “I can’t talk about this with you. I need to leave.”

Dean clenched his jaw. He hadn’t meant to upset him this bad. “Where you gonna go?” Without Cas’s car, he’d have to go with Dean anywhere he wanted to go. He couldn’t expect Dean to let him walk alone out here at night. Maybe he’d be safe from getting jumped, but there could still be wild animals out here.

“Somewhere. Anywhere that isn’t here.” Cas’s jaw was set.

“Cas, lemme give you a ride at least.” Dean pleaded with him, widening his eyes.

Boring into him with a hard look, Cas huffed. “Fine.” He climbed into the passenger seat, and while Dean had never seen someone get into a car grumpily, Cas somehow managed it.

Dean started the engine and backed out of the park. He didn’t say anything when he saw police cars in front of the school, and didn’t look over to see if Castiel noticed him either.

Aiming for Cas’s apartment, the ride was silent. The town wasn’t very big, so there wasn’t much ground to cover, but this silence was brutal. Dean could feel the waves of anger and frustration coming off of Cas from a foot away.

Dean chanced a glance sideways. Cas was all hunkered down in his seat, arms crossed, expression closed, full Cold Shoulder routine. “Are you gonna fume at me all night?”

“Maybe.” Cas muttered.

“Why don’t you come with me?” Dean was grasping at straws. It was a seat-of-the-pants offer, but the longer it hung in the air, the more Dean didn’t mind the idea. “Let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go to California or somewhere nice. Take a few days, but—“

“They _fired_ me.” Cas shot back. “You don’t get it, maybe it doesn’t mean much to you, but they outright fired me. And for breaking and entering school property, damaging equipment, and whatever else Adler wants to pin on me.” He slumped further down in the passenger seat. “He might be a jackass, but he’s got a lot of power.”

“And what do you want me to do? Do you want me to fix it or do you just want someone to yell at?”

“I don’t know!” Cas said loudly. He said again in a softer tone, “I don’t know...”

“Dammit, Cas. I’m sorry I got you fired.” Dean looked over, but Cas didn’t meet his eyes. He plowed on. “It’s my fault. You haven’t said it yet, but... God knows it, I know it. I’m... it’s on me. It was always on me, and I was careless.” He lifted his hand and let it fall.

Castiel sniffed.

Sighing, Dean pulled out his last card. “Look, I know it won’t make up for it or anything, but... can I take you out for that drink we talked about? Get your mind off it?”

Cas thought about it in silence for several seconds. Finally, he said, “Are you going to laugh at me for being a lightweight?”

Dean snorted. He wasn’t forgiven, but it was better than the silent treatment. “Probably. Come on, lets see if the Independent Club has a good brew on tap.” He turned down Fifth Avenue and headed for the main road.

...

Small town bars were nice because they always had a table open for two guys looking down on their luck.

“This must be where all the cool kids drink.” Dean gestured around to the dozens of older men crowded around tables and the wide oak bar at the front. Like thousands of others bars, The Independent Club had that unique smell of spilled beer and stale sweat practically pounded into the wooden planks that made up the floor and walls. Also like thousands of other bars, it had the same kind of clientele. Over 50, graying hair and beard, potbellies hanging over large belt buckles. Perfect for catching a game of pool or cards.

Cas chuckled over his glass of pale ale. “I wouldn’t know. I was never a cool kid.” He set it down and surveyed Dean. His eyes were bright in the dim light of the windowless room.

“Hey, you ditched the glasses, though,” Dean pointed out. Cas’s glasses were currently sitting in Dean’s cupholder, as they were smudged from his earlier outburst. “That’s gotta at least put you at band-geek status.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel looked down at the table, tapping his fingers aimlessly on the surface of the table. The slight crease between his eyes told Dean he wasn’t being the best distractor from all the issues going on in Cas’s brain right now.

He realized he didn’t know much about Cas besides where he worked—formerly—and where he lived. “So, you come from around here?”

Cas shook his head. “No, I come from more back east. A small suburb outside of Chicago.”

“How’d you wind up here?” It was a big move from Chicago to the middle of Nebraska.

“I graduated, and I wanted far away from Illinois.” Cas shrugged. Dean could relate to that. Half the jobs he took nowadays were because they were in states far away from his father.

“Rough family life?”

“Uh—no family life. My parents are dead, and I don’t have any siblings.” Cas frowned harder at the table before looking up. “Really, I was just getting away from my ex.”

Shit. “Oh, sorry, man. That’s—fuck.” Dean literally always had his foot in his mouth.

Cas laughed. Dean tried and failed not to appreciate sound of it. It was a nice laugh. “It’s really okay, I’m pretty used to it by now.”

“So when you said this was your last shot...” Dean trailed off. How could he have gotten this man fired?

“I meant it mostly literally,” Cas smiled sadly. “You’re right. I’ll have to move on. Start over again, I guess. I’ll probably leave this place off my resume.”

“I am sorry.” Dean shifted uncomfortably. He probably wouldn’t scrub that off his conscience for some time. Great.

Cas waved his hand. “You were doing your job. Adler was doing his.” He took a sip from his beer. “Turns out I’m just not very good at doing mine.”

Dean was desperate for a subject change. They were here to get Cas’s mind off of getting fired, not make him wallow in it. “What was your ex like? Someone I gotta hunt down the next time I’m in Chicago?”

“He wouldn’t be hard to find. He’s Dick Roman.”

Dean felt his jaw drop. “You _dated_ Dick Roman?” Dean couldn’t believe it. Dick Roman was one of the country’s most successful entries in Forbes’ _30 Under 30_. He had a whole auto steel enterprise that he’d inherited from his father and then built up to encompass half of America’s GDP. He was practically royalty in the business world. Even Dean knew that.

“Yeah, for quite a while if you can believe it.” Cas looked down, bashful.

Dean tried to picture Cas walking around Lake Michigan with Dick. Tried to see them having a casual conversation over dinner or in bed. Tried to puzzle out how that first date must have gone. “I’m sorry, I just can’t see it.”

Cas slapped his arm playfully. “I resent that! I’m at least a solid 8 in Chicago!”

Well, Dean thought that was a massive understatement. Cas must be at least a 9.8 wherever he goes. Dorky glasses and all. “No, I understand why he went for you, I just don’t get why _you_ went for _him_. Dude looks like he breathes fire and snacks on the souls of the innocent.”

Cas flushed. “He was fun. We met my sophomore year while he was finishing up business school. It was very secretive, lots of illicit meetings and burner phones.”

“You could have been set for life.”

Fidgeting with a coaster, Cas looked down. “Yeah, well, he wasn’t ready to come out of the closet just yet.” Cas was sad. Well fuck, now Dean had a mortal enemy in Dick Roman. He’d never buy another bottle of Roman-branded oil for the Impala again.

“His loss.” Dean said suddenly.

“What?”

Dean leaned closer. “He’s a loser if he didn’t want to be out with you.”

The corner of Cas’s mouth lifted in a half-smile, before stretching across his whole face. It started a wildfire under Dean’s skin that made his face start to tingle, but he wasn’t quite sure why. Cas was his friend. They hadn’t known each other for very long, but still friends. You could hang out with friends. Eat food with them, do stuff with them. Just friends. Still, Dean had no idea what made him ask what he did next. “What’s it like—kissin’ a dude?”

Raising an eyebrow, Cas pursed his lips and set down his beer glass. “It feels like kissing anyone, Dean. Gender doesn’t change the basics of a kiss.” His brow suddenly creased and he frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”

“No, no! I—just...” he whipped his head around and shrugged. “Just never tried it before. ‘As all.”

Cas tilted his head, his cobalt gaze boring into Dean’s, and Dean had to admit he was much less buzzed than he realized or would have liked to be for this conversation. “You must be pretty drunk if you’re asking me that.” He suddenly chuckled, like he was nervous.

“Nah,” Dean waved his hand. “Just askin’.” He immediately drained his glass and cursed that the waitress was too far away to immediately ask for another.

They could have stopped the conversation there, just chalked it up to an awkward question asked over too many beers. But now, Dean had to know. The question was buzzing in his skull like a mosquito. 

“Like, is there stubble?” He forced himself to look at Cas, even though the blush on his face was likely the same color as the Dos Equis neon sign behind him. “F-from his beard?”

“Sometimes.” Cas murmured, ducking slightly to meet Dean’s eyes, probing his gaze with a slight frown, like he was worried about Dean or something. “Sometimes, his hands grab your face and they’re rougher than a woman’s. They sometimes even hold you down.”

Fuck, but Dean could see it. He could feel it. Heat coming off of another man’s skin, touching his face, burning into his cheeks, pulling his own face towards him. Dean was leaning forward slightly, and he pulled himself back.

Cas was looking at him with a curious expression, like he had almost figured Dean out, but wasn’t quite there yet. “Have you ever thought about kissing a man, Dean?”

Dean could say no. He could laugh it off, and go back to his beer. Maybe even find a girl at the bar and part ways amicably with Cas here and take her back to the hotel. Fuck out his confusion in a way much safer to his relatively limited experience.

“Yeah.” he whispered, barely audible. He blinked suddenly. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this.

Cas looked steadily at him. Dean licked his lips. Eyes fell to lips, and back up. Dean opened his mouth to tell Cas to stop staring, but he only noticed because he himself was staring. And suddenly, Cas had his lips pressed to Dean’s.

Cas pulled back after a second. Dean was sure he looked as shell-shocked as he felt. He waited for Cas to laugh or something, but Cas’s eyes didn’t open. “I’m sorry, I—“

Dean silenced whatever Cas thought he was about to say. Pulled him in with a hand on his stupidly sharp jaw. Cas crowded in closer, and slung an arm around his neck. Dean opened his mouth to swipe his tongue across Cas’s lips, but his were already open. Ready to suck on Dean’s tongue in a way that made Dean uncomfortably hot under the collar.

Dean pulled back, panting. “We should leave.” The blue in Castiel’s eyes was nearly swallowed by the black of his pupil. Dean could see his own reflection there, and he saw that he wasn’t much better off. “Right now.”

Nodding vigorously, Cas unlatched himself and threw back the last of his beer. They scrambled out of the booth and pushed each other out the door, running into a scandalized man with a fedora at least old enough to be Dean’s grandfather. Dean took Cas’s hand, steadily ignoring the fact that he hadn’t held another man’s hand in his life, maybe ever. He tugged Cas out of the bar, around the corner of the building, and practically dragged him to the dark corner he had left the Impala in. He pressed Castiel up against the side door, pushing in close between his feet. Every direction he could possibly go, there was Cas. Pulling away to breathe, only to get dragged back in by his shirt. Pushing forward to get another hit off of whatever cologne Cas had clinging to his neck, to get tugged gently back up to his lips. Dean didn’t know where to put his hands to get the most access. He couldn’t get close enough, and yet he was wrapped all around the man in front of him. Dean felt like a live wire was zipping through his veins, and yet there was no brain activity to tell him to slow down or take it easy.

“I don’t—I’ve never...” he stammered between drugged kisses. The heat between them was overwhelming and growing still.

Cas nodded, doing a complicated trick with his tongue to the roof of his mouth that made Dean’s knees shake. “That’s okay, I’ll go slow.”

“No—!” Dean pulled back. Cas’s hair was rucked up by Dean’s hands. His lips were swollen and bitten-red. Cas raised his eyebrow like he had in the bar and Dean couldn’t let that go again without another kiss. “Don’t wanna go slow.” He was so desperate for it, but he didn’t even know what _it_ was. He knew sex with women. Knew how to make them crazy for it, for his hands, for him. He wanted that with Cas. Knew he’d be an absolute mess under his hands. “You know what you’re doing?”

Cas smiled at Dean’s lack of coherency. He slid his hands slowly around Dean’s middle, and hugged him in tight. Pressed a smooch there against Dean’s neck. Dean’s head lolled to the side when Cas started nipping at the skin there. Another zing of electricity started somewhere near the base of Dean’s skull and spread everywhere, warming his fingertips and making him press his hips in closer. Cas whispered in his ear, “I know what I’m doing. Let me take care of you. Please.”

Dean was sure he whimpered, and he was also sure he would deny that fact upon death, and he was _very_ sure that Cas was some kind of demon or something, because the way he reached down and grabbed Dean’s ass to grind into him was some kind of evil and ten kinds of hot.

He wasn’t sure how they got the door open, but they ended up in the backseat, Dean straddling Cas and humping into him like a teenager. The feel of Cas’s erection against his was making him blush obscenely, he could feel the heat under his jaw and spread across his chest. Cas couldn’t seem to stop _looking_ at him. All traces of his previous alcohol buzz gone, he sat up to wrestle his jacket and shirts off. Cas’s hands landed on his thighs, stroking up and down in a way that Dean supposed was to soothe him, but just revved him up more. He couldn’t wait to get those hands on his bare skin.

“You wear too many clothes,” Cas smirked at him, reaching up to palm over his belly, the muscles jumping.

“Maybe _you_ wear too many clothes.” Dean replied smartly, dumping his shirts in the front seat. He leaned in, only to get pulled down the rest of the way by the amulet around his neck twisted in Cas’s fingers. Cas had some stubble working in, and Dean opened his mouth wider to feel more of the scratch against his cheeks. It was different than anything he’d ever experienced, and he couldn’t get enough. They had to do this again. This couldn’t be the only time he got this.

Cas had big hands, and the heat of them pressed to his hips like a vice was making Dean’s mind wander into what it might feel like to get held down by those hands, just like Cas had talked about. He fumbled for the buttons on Cas’s sensible white button-up. It was rumpled and wrinkled by Dean’s clutching fingers, and it was time for it to come off.

He was close to ripping the damn thing open when Cas’s fingers smoothed along his to help him, never letting go of his mouth. Cas sat up to pull the sleeves off, and Dean wrapped his arm around Cas’s neck, burying himself in the other man.

“You’ve really never been with a man?” Cas asked. They were panting in the scant inches between them, the windows totally fogged by now. There was no question to anyone outside the car what its occupants were doing. Cas reached out and traced across Dean’s mouth with his thumb, holding himself up on his other arm.

Dean shook his head. “Startin’ to think that was an oversight on my part.” He reached down to Castiel’s belt buckle, the clinking sound it made extra loud in this space. It was a reminder of what he was about to do, to see, to feel. “Wanna see you, please.”

Cas shimmied out of his pants and shook them off, definitely not-gracefully. Dean couldn’t laugh because it involved brain power and blood he simply didn’t have up north at the moment. When Cas situated himself underneath Dean, one leg was bent up on the seat, and the other trailed down to the footwell. He was bare to Dean’s hungry gaze, from his face—totally open and curious—to his strong legs.

Dean was positively _drooling_ for it. “Can I fuck you?” His breath hitched when Cas nodded, spreading his legs slightly. Cas stuck his own finger in his mouth, coating it in saliva, before reaching down past the cock Dean couldn’t wait to get his hands and mouth on, and rubbed lightly over his own hole. Dean was sucked in the sight, and reached out to where Cas was touching himself. Cas grabbed his wrist and sucked his middle finger down. Dean groaned at the sight Cas made and the feel of his fingertip bumping up against Cas’s soft palate. His finger was well and truly slicked, but Cas kept sucking because—well, Dean had a sneaking feeling that Cas was trying to show off and make him hot. And it was working. When he pulled the digit out slowly, Dean reached down to where Cas’s hand had been and with the most gentle of pressure, rubbed over the skin there. He listened to Cas’s breath hitch, and leaned in to kiss him again.

“Slowly, put it in and get me wet.” Cas whispered against his lips, coaching him through opening him up. Dean was an excellent student, and before long, Cas was keening for it. Dean was ravenous for the sight Cas made underneath him, not even daring to blink for fear of missing something. His calf muscles were cramping something fierce, and he was sure Cas must feel the same with his thigh muscles held so tight. With three fingers in now, Dean passed over a spot inside— _inside of Cas—_ that made him twitch violently. “D-do it again—“ Cas managed to get out. Dean snarled and rubbed triple-time over that same spot, working through the hand cramp. His erection was so hard, it was painful. His boxers were barely on, but they stretched obscenely. Cas was so tense beneath him, head tossed back, sweating, and making this amazing _ah-ah!_ sound, and it was the greatest thing Dean had ever experienced. He found the button that made Cas go crazy, he was going to fuckin’ use it. 

“Stop—stop!” Cas cried out, laying flat out against the seat when Dean pulled his fingers out, panting.

“Did I—did I do it wrong?” Dean worried, eyes darting around Cas’s face and a flush building high on his cheeks.

Cas shook his head, scoffing. “No. No, it was great. But I have to see more of your first time with a man, Dean. Fuck me.”

Dean, ever the sap, even while fucking in a car in the back parking lot of a shady bar, reached in for another kiss, slipping his tongue past Castiel’s teeth. “I can’t last very long.” He muttered. “M’so hard right now. Like, embarrassingly hard.”

Cas chuckled. “I know. I can see it.” He reached down and jacked Dean a few times, spreading the wetness at the tip along his shaft. “I can’t wait to get this thing inside me.” Dean couldn’t help the hitch of his hips into the cradle of Cas’s, or the moan he buried in the other man’s neck.

Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, which he was still wearing like some sort of john, he fumbled out the condom he kept there, tossing the rest of it on the floor of the car. A few fake IDs fell out, along with some loose coins, but Dean just didn’t _care._

Cas helped him smooth it over his cock, Dean throwing his head back to pant at the roof of the car as Cas palmed him and ran his hands all over his shaft and balls. He helped him get situated at Cas’s entrance too, which Dean knew from very limited gay porn experience was a lot harder to get right on your own than it looked.

“Get in me, Dean Winchester.” Cas whispered, and Dean had to lean down and kiss him. Had to fuck his mouth to keep from groaning at the feel of Cas all around him as he pushed in. Cas ran his hands all over Dean’s back and gripped his ass inside his jeans, feeling where his muscles were tight. “Move—“ he whispered and pressed on the small of Dean’s back to get him to push in. Dean pulled out, nipped at Cas’s neck when he gasped, and pushed back in.

Their rhythm was probably sloppy, Dean thought. This probably wasn’t the best way Cas had ever gotten fucked, by some inexperienced drifter in the back of a car, but for Dean, it was everything. A pink haze crowded out every other thought in Dean’s head that wasn’t centered around Cas and the way he felt and sounded and moved and tasted and...

“Fuck, Cas—“ Dean groaned, inelegantly. “This is...”

“I know.” Cas answered. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come—!” He gasped as Dean changed angles in an effort to get closer.

Dean kept moving, energy renewed with every whine he pulled from Cas. He was breathing heavy, each breath sounding higher pitched until he was keening for it right alongside the man underneath him. They couldn’t keep it up, this energy couldn’t last.

Alighting on the sight of Cas’s erect cock slapping between them, it took all of Dean’s focus to reach out with his sweaty hand and touch sweatier skin in an effort to make Cas come first. It was his only goal now. Make Cas come. Let him get all the pleasure he needs from this. Make him remember Dean as a good memory. Even when all this was over. When Dean was gone.

His grip was clumsy, he knew. He felt stoned and drunk and high and manic all at the same time. He wrapped a hand around Cas’s cock, relishing the way it made Cas clench tighter around him, pitching forward with pleased surprise.

He stripped Cas’s cock, sweat and pre-come and who knows what else slicking the way, still keeping the insane rhythm jolting them each time they came together. One of Cas’s hands was thrown up on the seat behind them, clenching into the leather so hard, Dean could swear he heard it creak. The other was balled up and thrown over his eyes. Dean couldn’t have that. He pulled away from Cas’s cock, causing a whimper that turned into a squeak when Dean seized that wrist and pulled it away from Cas’s face.

“Fuck, honey, just look at me.” Dean’s voice was husky and shaky. He was close, and he knew it. He needed to make Cas come first, though. He resumed his previous task of an inelegant handjob, but now that he had Cas’s attention, he pulled out all the stops, trying every trick he knew he liked when someone else was touching him. He tried to smirk down at Cas’s staggered expression, but he wasn’t sure his was any more put-together. Dean leaned down, his other arm shaking at the effort of keeping himself up. He kissed Cas like his life depended on it, but it was more like the two of them panted into each other’s mouths, eyes wide open. Staring at each other, memorizing the other’s face in this moment.

“Want you to come, Cas.” He pleaded with the man beneath him. He couldn’t last much longer. “Come for me.”

Cas thrust forward, and threw his head back, cock spurting over Dean’s hand. The feel of it—Dean was too enraptured by Cas’s expression to look down and see it—was enough to send Dean hitching further forward into Cas, burying his nose in Cas’s chest as he came too. His orgasm forced him forward two-three more times, his groans muffled by Cas’s skin.

When it was done, Dean felt the weariness creeping in on his muscles like he’d run a marathon. He laid there with his face in Cas’s heaving chest, too tired to move or even think about moving. Cas’s breath was shaky, as were his hands when they went skating over the slick skin of his back. Dean didn’t usually like cuddling after sex. He was a sensual guy, sure, but the thought of tangling up with someone else after all that sweaty time together usually made his skin crawl. Here, though, he thought he could allow himself a few minutes to bask in the beginnings of a seriously peaceful afterglow. After all, it was kinda special.

It was several long minutes in the quiet as their breathing returned to normal and the sweat cooled on their skin. “You lasted surprisingly long for your first time with a man.” Castiel mused. Dean grinned at the feel of his low voice rumbling through his chest right under Dean’s ear.

“Almost didn’t. Had to kiss you to keep from going off right away.” Dean answered, unashamed. “That was fun.”

Cas chuckled. “Yeah, the first time is usually pretty memorable.” He settled more comfortably into the seat when it became apparent that Dean had no intention of moving quite yet.

Dean had a sinking feeling that any time with the man underneath him and wrapped around him still would be pretty memorable, and that it might be a memory he’d soon have to leave in his rear view mirror.


	7. Appoggiatura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said I wanted this done by the end of the summer?   
> Anyway... 
> 
> The Morning After™

When Dean woke up, he had to blink a few times to get his bearings. He was sprawled across a side of Cas’s bed in his apartment. When they’d finally gotten enough collective brain cells scraped together to peel themselves off of each other—and the leather seats—and put their clothes back on, Cas had invited Dean back to his apartment for the night. It wasn’t like Cas had to be up early to get to school or anything, he’d reasoned. Dean had stuttered through an acceptance, and by the time he’d driven them both back to Cas’s building, he’d worked himself into a good and proper panic. They’d have to _talk_ about this, wouldn’t they? Dean knew it was unwise to sleep with friends, especially friends you wouldn’t mind keeping. Of course, Dean also figured he’d have to grapple with the newfound part of himself that actually didn’t mind sleeping with another man. And, in all reality, would very much like it to happen again, if possible. It was nice though, Dean reasoned, that for now he wasn’t stressed about that part. He and his father might have some different ideas about how the world worked and what men should like and not like, but Dean was perfectly happy to keep this part of himself secret for now. Panic later, talk now.

But when Dean had tried, Cas had only smiled and leaned in for a kiss that crossed a few wires in Dean’s brain and left it a pile of happy mush. _‘Later,’_ he’d said. _‘Let’s get some sleep.’_ and put Dean flat on his back in his bed, stripped down to boxers and nothing else. Flung an arm over his stomach and passed the fuck out.

Dean didn’t remember the last time he’d slept that long or that soundly.

Now that it was morning, Dean glanced around the room. He hadn’t thought to inspect Cas’s decor choices the first time he was here. Cas was pretty minimalist in his decorating. He had a few black and white sketches of buildings—probably places in Chicago, Dean reasoned—but not much else on the walls. White comforter, white sheets, sparse pieces of wood furniture. The man lived like he was on the run. Which, from last night’s conversations, maybe Cas was running from something just like Dean was.

Cas was nowhere to be found. The bed was messed up, like someone had been sleeping there, but its former occupant was nowhere to be found. Dean sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He heard shuffling behind the closed bedroom door, and got up to investigate. He was still in his boxers, and was very much dealing with a case of morning wood. He didn’t get too worked up about it though. Not like Cas hadn’t seen it already. He checked his hair in the round mirror that hung on the wall above the dresser to make sure it wasn’t too crazy. He definitely had a hickey blooming on the side of his neck that he’d have to tease Cas about later. But, he supposed, Cas would probably just get back at him with the bruises he knew he left around Cas’s right nipple.

He opened the bedroom door as quietly as he could. Cas was in his small living room, also in his boxers, standing at the window, holding the curtains apart as he watched the activity in the parking lot of the grocery store across the street. He had his cell phone up to his ear, and was listening intently. As Dean walked closer, he could hear a tinny voice speaking rather quickly and with some amount of anger.

“—that’s fine, but if you don’t let me finish the show...” Cas huffed into the phone, betraying his own agitation. The voice on the other end spoke over him.

“—Mr. Adler— no, I understand—“ Cas tried several time to cut, without success. Suddenly he turned, and jumped a bit seeing Dean standing there. Dean smirked, an expression that grew to a grin when Cas shook his head, pointing to the phone and throwing his hand up in the air, exasperatedly.

Dean leaned against the partition to the kitchen, crossing his arms. Cas glanced at him again, his gaze appreciatively trailing up Dean’s stomach and chest in a way that made Dean preen and blush at the same time. Maybe he shouldn’t be hoping for more. He’d have to leave soon after ganking this ghost. No use putting down ties to a place that’d just as soon be in his rear view mirror.

“—if I don’t finish the show, all those kids’ hard work will be for nothing. And think of all that money that went to building the set.” Cas huffed. The voice—Adler’s—went quiet for a moment. Dean snorted. He wasn’t sure the kids would be that heartbroken honestly if they weren’t allowed to perform, but if it was important to Cas...

“Thank you. I promise, the show and nothing more. I’ll be gone after the last show on Saturday. Thank you. Go—“ the line went dead. Cas pulled the phone away from his ear. “Goodbye to you too, asshole.” He tossed the phone on the chair underneath the window and stretched. He turned to Dean. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah. I—uh... yeah.” Dean shuffled around where he stood, unable to settle.

Cas tilted his head. “Should we... talk about what happened?”

“It was... fun.” It wasn’t that he’d never had to have this talk before; say some meager goodbyes before hitting the road again. Hell, he’d even stayed for breakfast a quickie sometimes. But this was… different. It felt different. And totally not because it had been his first time with another dude. Shit, but it wasn’t Cas’s first time. Probably way less than stellar, compared to what he was used to.

Cas studied him for a moment, before saying quietly. “Probably should keep it professional from here on out, though, right?” Cas’s expression tightened, his smile turning small and forced. Probably feeling every bit of Dean’s awkwardness about the experience.

Great. He could play it cool, though. No need to drag Cas into it if he wasn’t feeling the encounter. Dean swallowed and ignored the feeling of his stomach sinking.

“Right, don’t wanna... I don’t want to give you the wrong idea or anything.” Always better to go with blasé disaffection.

“Sure, I mean, when this is over…” Cas trailed off.

“I’ll…” Dean didn’t know how to finish that sentence. He didn’t like any particular plan for after. Especially now. Fuck.

“You’ll... be on your way.”

“Yes. I will be on—on my way.” Dean cleared his throat. “Can’t hang around.” Definitely not after this showstopper.

“And I’ll have to go. Too. Separately of course.” Cas nodded.

“Totally separately. I’m going to—wherever I end up.”

Cas looked away then, back out the window and playing with the blind string. “So we don’t need to complicate anything.”

“Right, and we’re fine.” Dean said it, instead of asking like a teenage girl. Why d _on’t you still like me?_

“Totally fine. It was fun, and now it’s done.” Cas said with some finality.

“Yep. It was good, right?” Dean couldn’t help asking, seeking some reassurance, even if it was never going to happen again.

“It was good.” Cas said. He cleared his throat and looked up at Dean. “Breakfast?”

“Sure.”

Making breakfast together. Dean can handle this. Totally normal thing to do with your one night stand, right? Cas pointedly did not look at him as he ducked around Dean, going around the partition into the small galley kitchen. Dean followed him.

“Adler giving you a hard time on the phone?” he asked, leaning against the counter.

Cas shrugged and sagged against the opposite side. “We were just outlining the terms of my employment termination,” Cas said. Dean was pleased that he didn’t sound so broken up and the-world-is-falling-at-my-feet about it this morning. Cas continued. “He wants me out of the school entirely, but if we still have to check on the ghost, I figured we’d need a way back in the building.”

“You just couldn’t disappoint your kids. The show must go on, and all that.” Dean snagged an overripe banana from the counter and peeled it, stuffing it in his mouth. “Drama dork ‘til the end.”

“Well, the last show is Saturday night, that’s four days from now. We have until then to figure out where the last piece of this guy is.” Cas ticked off the days on his fingers. “After that, I’m liable to get arrested—for real this time—if I set foot on school property.”

Dean carefully did not ask what Cas planned to do after Saturday. He didn’t want to deal with that conversation until later. “But he’s willing to let you oversee drama rehearsals.”

“As long as I’m out of the building by five, then yes.” Cas agreed. 

“When does rehearsal start?”

“ _Promptly_ after the last bell at three o’clock.” Cas opened the cupboard and took down two mugs. He filled an electric kettle with water and while it was boiling, bustled around putting toast in the toaster.

Dean glanced at the plain white clock hanging over the stove. It was just past nine now. “I’d like to talk to Kevin Tran if we could, but I don’t want to bother him in the hospital.” Dean admitted.

Cas nodded. “His mother said he was expected to be discharged from the hospital on Thursday or Friday, but I’m sure he’d appreciate some new visitors if you’d like to go. I’ll text her before we arrive so she has some heads up.” The toast popped up from the toaster and Cas got down two plates. He crossed to the fridge and pulled out butter, grape jelly, and snagged a jar of almond butter from the counter by the microwave. He set two pieces of perfectly browned toast on a plate and handed them to Dean, along with a knife. He waved his hand towards where the butter and other spreads were set out and turned back to the kettle.

Dean glanced at the label for the almond butter, before shrugging and slathering his toast with a healthy amount. He hadn’t tried it before, but he knew Sam looked for it when they went grocery shopping sometimes. Something about it being better for you or some shit. Dean bit into his toast and considered. It wasn’t bad.

Cas handed him a mug of hot water next. “I have tea and instant coffee.” Dean accepted a scoop of instant coffee. As he was mixing it into the steaming water, he mulled over what he wanted to say. “I just wanted to—uh... thank you.” He ducked his head, suddenly very interested in the fake grout between the plain gray linoleum tiles. He didn’t know how to say this without sounding massively awkward.

“For what?” Cas pressed gently when Dean couldn’t continue. He glanced up to see enough of a smirk on the man’s face to know that he probably knew exactly what Dean was thanking him for.

“For—you know... not—not making it weird or anything.” Fuck, but Dean was out here doing an excellent job of making it weird on his own.

“Oh, did you change your mind?” Raising an eyebrow, Cas turned back to the counter behind him. “Do you actually want to talk about it, then?” Cas didn’t look up from where he was covering his toast in unholy amounts of grape jelly.

“Not really,” Dean confessed. “It was... fun.”

Cas nodded. “It was fun. And educational.” He smirked up at Dean, as he then dunked a tea bag into his mug.

“Educational?”

“For you.” Cas pointed at him with the spoon he was now using to stir honey into his tea.

Dean colored. “Uh—yes. Very educational.” He wasn’t used to being the almost-virgin in these situations. He nibbled at his toast and took a sip of his scalding instant coffee. The burn helped him hesitate a little longer on a question nagging at his brain. “But it was... okay? There was a lot of emotions, you were pretty upset before...” Dean trailed off.

“It was fun, and we were safe about it.” Cas shrugged. “It was probably just what I needed, honestly.”

“Good, good.” Smooth finish, Winchester. He supposed he was still safely in his boundaries. He could do this. He just... wouldn’t sleep with Castiel again until the case was over. Ever again... he meant ever again. One time thing. One night stand. And they could part as friends after this. Friends who definitely knew what the other looked like when he came. Friends who may or may not have tried some life-altering new choices. No consequences there, right?

Right.

Sighing, he threw back the last of his coffee. Cas shook the crumbs off of his fingers and licked his lips in a way that made Dean look away quickly. “Should we tell Mrs. Tran we’ll be at the hospital today?”

It wouldn’t hurt to move things along in the case, not really. Dean’s father would insist that they hit the road all the sooner to get to the next job, the next city, the next atrocity. His insides writhed at the thought of having to leave Central City and Castiel behind, but Dean knew it was for the best. “Might as well. Gotta tie up the loose ends, right?”

Even as Cas nodded and went back to the living room to grab his phone again, Dean let his head fall back and look up at the ceiling. He always hated goodbyes.

...

The town hospital was cheery enough in the daylight. Someone had tried to create a garden out of the vast amount of lawn outside the welcome area, but without regular care, the hydrangeas and hostas were sprawling all over, their out-of-season limbs dried and crunchy under their feet.

Dean held the door open for Cas, eyeing the sunny blonde receptionist with a fair amount of distrust. He hated hospitals.

He followed Cas through the glass atrium into the waiting room. An old television sat sagely in the front corner, surrounded by tired-looking padded benches. A children’s section was marked by a tidy pile of blocks and one of those wooden activity tables with the wires and beads nearby. The room had one other patient—an elderly woman in neat slacks and a purple scarf tied around her hair to keep the wind out. Cas walked through the waiting room and caught the attention of the woman at the desk, who called out to him enthusiastically, like an old friend.

“Castiel! What brings you in today?” The receptionist grinned with a blinding Crest White-strip smile, that instantly bugged Dean. She was gorgeous in the face, and—to Dean’s reluctant appreciation—clearly aware of it by the way she batted her lashes at Cas. He fought the urge to grab Cas’s hand, because again… one night stand. He didn’t want to complicate things.

Cas waved cheerfully. “Just checking in on Kevin. Nice to see you, Melody.” He stopped at Melody’s desk, placing his elbows on the countertop. Dean stepped up awkwardly behind him, not sure where to look or what to do with his hands. He was usually the one with the plan to get past security. It didn’t look like they’d need to, here.

Melody blushed, clearly smitten with Cas, to Dean’s annoyance. “So nice of you to visit. He’s had a few of the kids from school come to see him, but not many of the teachers.” She leaned forward, nudging the paperwork she had been working on to the side. The look in her eyes told Dean she was positively thrilled to see Cas walk through her door, and would probably talk to him all afternoon if she was allowed.

Dean had to roll his eyes.

“I know Keith Winters wanted to visit, but you know how the basketball season is.” Cas shook his head. “Can you tell us where Kevin’s room is? We won’t be too long.”

“Sure! It’s been a pretty slow day here, lately.” Melody nodded. She turned her gaze upon Dean, seemingly seeing him for the first time since Cas walked in. “And who’s your friend here?” She sat up in her chair, observing Dean with warm brown eyes.

“Ah, this is—“

“Dean Winchester.” Dean said gruffly, not moving to extend his hand when Melody stood up.

Cas blinked. “Dean is… my friend from college.”

Dean rolled with it. “Best friend.”

“Best friend.” Cas nodded.

Melody tilted her head. She turned back to Cas. “Kevin’s in room 14 on the east side.” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder to the east wing. “His mother’s already been in today, but she sometimes shows up after lunch too.”

“We won’t be too long,” Cas promised. “Just a quick visit.” He turned to go, but Melody stopped him with a manicured hand on his arm.

“Cas, I’ve been meaning to ask you!” If possible, her mega-watt smile got even brighter. “There’s a swing dance being put on by First Plymouth next Friday—“ Dean groaned internally as she chattered. The faster they could get away from the desk, the better.

Like a champ, Cas shrugged off her hand gently and patted it with his own. “I’m actually going to Grand Island next Friday for a conference. Sorry.” He looked contrite enough for Dean to start shifting on his feet. This was getting more uncomfortable by the minute.

Melody’s lovely face shifted through disappointment before quickly settling back on her usual brilliant smile. “Maybe some other time then?” She asked, hopeful.

Cas nodded. “Absolutely.” He started walking backwards. “We’ll check in with you on the way out.” He tugged Dean’s sleeve surreptitiously, leading him towards the east wing.

As they got out of sight of the receptionist desk, Cas heaved a deep sigh beside Dean. He waited for Cas to say something as they moved down the hallway. Maybe something like “wow, that was annoying” or “she really didn’t get the hint” or something equally as dismissive would make him feel better. The doors were far between each other, speaking to the amount of space available out here for building in the boonies of Nebraska. A plastic wall guard ran along the entire hall, with generic artwork hung here and there. When Cas continued to say nothing, Dean waffled between asking about Melody or ignoring it altogether. He wasn’t sure which was worse or more awkward.

“She’s pretty.” He settled on. Going for the first option then. Fuck.

Cas looked up. He smirked, making Dean frown harder. “She is pretty. Melody was one of the first people I met when I moved here.”

Dean’s brain took him through a multitude of scenarios in which the two could have met. “Church group?” He asked. He didn’t really know if Cas was religious or anything.

Shaking his head, Cas kept his eyes on the room numbers. “Ran into her in the supermarket, actually. We went out a few times.”

That stopped Dean. “You dated her?” He wasn’t sure why that stung a tiny bit.

Looking around when Dean was no longer beside him, Cas stopped too. “Yes. She works here part time while she’s doing online school for her graduate degree in psychology.”

“Did you… sleep with her?” Dean dropped his voice, hating himself for asking.

Cas raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing slowly. “Yes, it was nice.”

“That’s… nice.” He finally spat out. Cas glanced around and spotted Kevin’s room. A large brass 14 hung slightly crookedly, like it had been bumped but no one had noticed enough to right it. Hand on the pump handle, Cas looked back.

He had a wry smile on his face that Dean bristled at. “Dean, are you jealous or something?”

“Totally not jealous,” Dean scoffed. He crossed his arms. “Come on, are we going to question the kid or not?”

Cas pushed the handle. “Anything for my best friend from college.” He grinned and stepped through. Dean sighed and followed him.

The room had only one bed in it, early-November sunlight streaming through the window. A boy with neatly-parted black hair sat upright in the bed, flicking through a thick textbook. Various notebooks and papers scattered around him spoke of an ambitious kid trying like hell to get out of this small town. A long, jagged scar cut through his left eyebrow onto his cheek and down to his chin. The stitches were clearly doing their job, but he would probably be left with a nasty scar. Dean could see the hint of a cast on his left leg under the blanket as well. The kid looked up when the door opened, and his face lit up when he saw Cas.

“Mr. Novak!”

Cas nodded. “Kevin, it’s good to see you.” He greeted kindly. He gestured behind him. “This is my friend, Dean Winchester.”

Kevin waved politely and started clearing his homework away for his visitors. “My mom was here earlier today. You’re the first teacher that’s come to see me, though!” He said, cheerfully. “Marie from drama club came on Saturday though. She was… kinda broke up about it, actually.”

“Not surprising. We’ve all been very worried about you.” Cas pulled two chairs from the side of the wall and positioned one closer to Kevin’s bedside. Dean arranged the other one a little further away where he could still see the door.

In bed, Kevin looked tired, like he’d been up for several days. Dean knew the initial injuries had been bad; he supposed Kevin was working off some pretty good painkillers. Enough to fuck up anyone’s circadian rhythms. “You know,” Kevin said, fiddling with the finger clasp hooking him up to his heart monitor. “Marie was saying they were gonna shut down the entire theater program. They aren’t going to do that, are they?”

Cas snorted, leaning back and totally at ease. “No, they won’t shut it down. Principal Adler knows we’ve put too much time into this show to do that.” Dean noticed he definitely did not mention that he’d been fired from the school.

Kevin seemed relieved at that. “Sorry you had to recast my part, though. That was kinda shi—not great of me.”

“Nonsense,” Cas waved his hand. “The rest of us just have to pick up the slack. It’s no fault of yours, and I certainly don’t want you to feel bad about it.”

Dean eyed the stack of textbooks towering on the bedside table. AP Calculus, Advanced Economics, IB United States History. The kid was busy enough without his extracurriculars. Probably didn’t even have enough time to think about getting back on stage.

“That is sort of what I wanted to talk to you about, though, Kevin.” Cas started. He glanced at Dean. “I just wanted to get the full account from you of what happened… I know what was on the report, but—I would feel a lot better knowing what you saw.”

Kevin paused, looking down at his hands. “I think I told the police and the doctors something pretty weird, Mr. Novak. They all asked me a dozen times if I had hit my head.” He snorted. “I mean, I’m sure I _did_ , but…” he trailed off.

Dean raised an eyebrow when Cas glanced back again. He’d been through this a dozen times. The vic had been told they were wrong or crazy so many times that stye started to believe it themselves. People didn’t trust their own eyes, their brains trying to explain what they couldn’t. Trying to protect itself.

“Go on, Kev. We’ll listen to whatever you have to say.” Cas turned back, prompting Kevin gently. He settled in his chair, like he was getting ready to listen to a radio show. Dean could see what must have made him a good teacher—he was there to listen, and made it known.

“Well…” Kevin fiddled with the pencil in his hand. “Okay, but take all this with a grain of salt. Like, I-know-I-fell-from-a-great-distance kinds of grain of salt.” He heaved a sigh. “I saw… a man. A—uh—a figure, maybe is the better term for it. It was the weirdest thing, because I could have sworn…” he trailed off. “See, this is going to be where it sounds weird.”

Dean leaned forward in his seat, trying to look encouraging.

“I could have sworn it was… Principal Adler, up on the catwalk.” Kevin paused like he was getting ready for the two of them to start laughing, or maybe yell. When they did neither, he looked down at his hands again. “I know that doesn’t make sense. Why would he want to kill a student, right?”

“You’re sure it was him?” Cas prodded gently.

Kevin nodded. “It looked like him. It didn’t… sound like him though, he sounded—weird, I guess. Not like himself. And—he changed… somehow.”

“Principal Adler changed? How?” Dean pressed.

Scratching his head, Kevin tilted his head. “He… it was like he was… flickering. Like, he changed between Adler and… someone else.” Kevin closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. “I’m sorry, I know that’s crazy, and impossible. That’s just what I saw.”

That checked out. The spirit of Oswald definitely hadn’t been possessing Adler for long, but in that time, there wasn’t enough power there to really keep up the charade of being someone else for long. That kind of control took spirits time to master and integrate with the host.

Dean rooted around in his jacket pocket for the now-crumpled picture they’d taken from the Lincoln Manor. “The guy he changed into. You didn’t happen to catch a glimpse of someone who looked like this, did you?”

Kevin squinted at the picture for a second before his eyes went wide. “I swung at him when I felt like I was falling, and that’s when he flickered out. His face—it looked like that.” He jammed his finger at the picture. “Older, maybe. Or… fuzzier? I dunno. But that was him. He had a weird hat though.”

Cas and Dean shared a look. “What do you mean?”

“Sorta like a… dang, what do they call those—like, a fedora?” Kevin gestured with his hands on top of his head. “But like, rounder on top.”

“What did he do when you swung at him? When he flickered out?”

Shaking his head, Kevin slumped back against his pillows again. “He grabbed me. It was weird though. When he touched me, I felt cold. Like I’d never be happy again, and like… I dunno, like it wanted… inside of me. That sounds bad.” He grimaced and laughed uncomfortably.

“What did you hit him with?” Dean asked.

Kevin shrugged. “Just a prop I had in my hand. Some metal piping I needed for the lights.”

“It wasn’t iron, was it?” Dean shot a look at Cas, who shrugged. “Damn.”

“Actually, yeah, it was.” Kevin said, his face lighting up. “We’ve been using older stuff up there—budget restrictions, you know. Rusty as hell from so many years up there. Didn’t seem to stop him though.”

Dean sank back against the chair. “Son of a bitch.”

…

“So, if it was iron that Kevin used, shouldn’t that have stopped the spirit before we even got to him?” Cas asked, trying to catch up with Dean’s quick stride.

Dean wouldn’t slow down. “It should have. I don’t know what the fuck is happening.” How could he be so slow not to have seen this? If he didn’t banish the ghost back at the school, it meant the damn thing was still out there. And if it could possess people? They were in trouble. Serious trouble.

He was 80% sure it was still a spirit, but the other percentage of him was screaming to call dad, that this was an anomaly. No spirit should be able to handle getting whacked in the face with iron and _still_ have the juice to possess someone else days later. It didn’t make sense.

Cas followed Dean all the way back to the car, Dean stopping only when his hands were resting solidly on the trunk. He was also pretty sure he was approaching a panic attack if he didn’t calm down. He flexed his fingers a few times, feeling the sun-warmed metal under his hands. He vaguely felt Cas reach out and run his hand down his back, a feeling which he would not admit under threat of torture felt nice and soothing.

When he was ready, he sighed and unclenched his jaw. He stood up and turned back to Cas. “Okay, we—I need to make a new plan. Probably have to get back into the school, find whatever it is that’s holding him there.”

Cas nodded. “Whatever you need, I can help.”

“I shouldn’t let you help anymore.”

“Well, I am.”

“I got you fired.”

“I got myself fired.”

“By helping _me._ ”

They glared at each other. Dean only had an inch or so on Cas, but it still didn’t seem to help him gain the upper hand here. Cas’s glare dropped into a smug, lazy smile the longer he stared at Dean. Like he knew he’d won.

Fuck.

Dean huffed. “Fine, but you’re gonna be careful this time, yeah?”

Cas grinned and walked around the car to the passenger’s side. “Always am. Come on, we’re late for school.”

Dean grumbled the whole way to the driver’s seat, and the whole way back to Central City High.

“Would it help to go over the facts again? Review what we know?” Cas asked when they were safely in the parking lot on the south side. A few kids were on the playground outside. A glance at the clock told them it was after lunchtime; surely more kids would be out soon.

Sighing, Dean leaned back against the leather of his seat. The leather creaked under him, giving him a pleasant flashback to the night before when he’d had Cas’s hands all over him in this very car. He flushed and cleared his throat. Best to get back to business and save his pointless fantasies for later. Most likely when he’d be on his own in some other backwoods town. Away from Cas.

“We know the timeline. Oswald possesses Adler, and tries to off Kevin. Apparently, he hadn’t had too good of control over the possession at that time either, if he kept flickering in and out like Kevin said.”

Cas nodded. “So, he’s still in Adler by the time we try to burn him out on the football field last night.”

“Right. Iron doesn’t seem to affect him. And neither does salt.”

“So, where does that leave us?” Cas asked.

Dean covered his eyes with his hand, scrubbing over his face. “Good fucking question. There’s gotta be something else that’s holding his—essence or whatever it is. Something that has his DNA.”

Cas looked thoughtful. “Does it make a difference how old the DNA is?”

Shaking his head, Dean popped his door and got out. “Generally no. I’ve seen spirits held by a lock of hair, a doll they touched, that sort of thing. What gets me is that this spirit is some strong motherfucker if he kept coming after getting a face full of iron.” He waited for Cas to get out as well before they started to the main office. “Guess we should be thankful the salt round even worked when he had me by the throat the other night.”

Cas nodded. “Yeah, if we could avoid a repeat of that, that’d be awesome.” He muttered as unlocked and held open the metal door for Dean.

He supposed they were lucky Cas could even still get in the building. They tracked through the hallways, studiously avoiding catching anyone’s eye and strolling right into the place Adler swore he didn’t want them anywhere near.

“Where would you keep stuff for a really long time?” Dean asked as they shouldered back into the theater. “Like, pocket watches, handkerchiefs, that sort of thing.”

Cas looked back. “You think the theater is haunted because we kept a pocket watch too long?”

Dean shrugged. “Could be. Anything with a piece of the person, you know?”

Sighing, Castiel turned the corner down to the music and theater commons. “That means we’re looking for a specific piece of hair on a specific article of clothing, doesn’t it?” Cas passed by a classroom full of band kids doing more messing around than practicing. He rapped on the window and gave a standard Teacher Look™ that had the kids straightening up in an instant. Dean chuckled as they continued further into the commons area.

Dean hadn’t known about this entrance the first time he’d gone in. They wound through a long hallway filled with spare music stands, choir robes, and yet another giant cardboard cutout of a buffalo (“ _it’s a bison, Dean”)_ until they came to the backstage area. Here, the floor was splattered with paint in about a hundred different colors, speaking to the many times students had worked on set pieces back here. The concrete walls were tagged with at least a dozen various marks from students. Across the room, a roll-up door led to where Dean supposed the stage started. Canvas was rolled up and joined sheets of plywood in every shape and size along the walls.

“This looks more like a Home Depot than a theater.” Dean remarked, looking up at the utility lights and the power outlets hanging from the ceiling. “Didn’t know theater nerds had to run a garage on the side.”

Castiel chuckled, kicking aside the scraps from a 2X4 out of the main area. “It’s not like we can go to the store to buy set pieces.” He glanced around. “I did tell these kids to clean up the shop. Guess I never did get through to them.” He sounded wistful.

Dean’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. “Hey, come on. You had the job for what, three months? Don’t think I liked any of my teachers until at least January.” Dean decidedly did _not_ mention the massive crush he’d harbored for his eleventh grade history teacher, with the dark hair and stubble and the—

Anyway.

“We probably want the prop room. All of the stuff we’d pulled for this show, we’d had to get new or rented.” Cas explained as he walked through the roll-up door, Dean on his heels.

Dean saw a pile of clothing and props on a table near the door. “Yeah, what kinda show are you doing, anyway? I couldn’t really—uh… tell, during rehearsal.”

Cas turned to where Dean would have walked right by a door, painted black like the rest of the walls back here. He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and fit a big brass key into the lock. “It’s supposed to be a modern twist on the old classic—“ he glanced around, furtively, “Macbeth,” he said in a hushed whisper.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean followed Cas up the stairs behind the door. “Is it a secret or something?” The dim hallway was lit with a single bulb on a string from the high ceiling above. Long shadows were cast onto the walls, throwing Castiel’s face into sharp relief when he stopped at the top of the stairs outside yet another door.

“Don’t laugh,” he warned, “but the name of the play is supposed to be curse on the theater if you say it out loud.”

“What? Mac—“ Dean started but was cut off with Cas’s warm palm slapped over his mouth.

“Let’s not give the spirit anymore reason to fuck over our theater, yeah?” Cas smirked, taking away his hand. 

Dean rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut as Cas shoved the door open and shouldered his way into the cramped space. Dean followed and promptly tripped over an umbrella stand filled with various canes and walking sticks. The room where Dean found himself now seemed to be a dumping ground for every kind of coat, skirt, and blouse from the past seventy years. The rack of hats and handbags along the far wall seemed to go back even further in time. Here and there were piles of everyday objects: a bucket filled with fake food and pastries; a shelf with no less than fifteen different types of phones; a dozen kinds of eyeglasses.

“This all belongs to the theater department?” Dean marveled. He picked up a realistic stuffed parakeet that he was convinced could fly away any minute.

Cas smiled. “Would you believe we have more in cages underneath the shop? This room wouldn’t even hold half of the furniture we have.” He glanced around and sighed. “I’m not sure how to find something that would have belonged to a spooky theater director with a vengeance, though.”

Dean looked around as well, and heaved a sigh of his own. It could take hours to even catalog this much stuff, not to mention try to figure out what might have any trace of Oswald’s DNA on it. “Any idea where to even start?”

“Can a hat hold DNA?” Cas asked, looking up at the far wall. “Kevin mentioned Oswald was wearing a bowler hat.

The two looked at each other. “How many bowler hats you got?” Dean asked as he quirked a brow.

As it turned out, the theater owned no fewer than seven bowler hats, all of various colors and fabric qualities. Dean dutifully collected each one Cas threw down from where he was precariously perched with one foot on a low shelf and the other on the light board that took up the front of the room by the window looking down into the theater. Dean tried very hard not to notice what the angle did for his ass. Geez, now that he’d had a taste for Cas, it was hard to button it back up for the job.

“Okay,” Cas sounded strange in the close, tightly-packed room from above, “I think that’s the last one. We know it has to be one of these, because they just cleaned out the costume room last May. Although—“ he jumped down, hitting the carpet with a dusty _Poof_ coming up. “—I can’t say I believe there could have possibly been more clothing in this room.”

Dean laughed as he tossed the last hat on the table behind him. He’d swept the frankly distressing collection of masquerade masks from the tabletop to where they lay in a pile on the ground. “Do we just burn ‘em all?” He asked, surveying the lot. Three were black and rather plain-looking, but the other four were various jewel tones of fine felt. One even had a brocade ribbon going around the whole thing with an honest-to-god feather sticking out of it.

Cas shrugged. “I guess that would be easiest.” He picked one of the plain black ones up and examined the inside. “This one says it’s from 1989 though. I doubt this one belonged to Oswald.” He tossed it to the side.

“Next question is where are we going to burn these? We definitely can’t do it on school grounds again, and I know the motel won’t appreciate some weirdo burning hats in the parking lot.”

Chuckling again, Cas bumped into him with his arm. “Guess this is a little different than other jobs you must take. Burning strange hats in stranger motels.”

Dean grinned. “Definitely one of the more perplexing cases. The company’s not bad this time around, though.” He nudged Cas again.

The way Cas’s expression softened as he looked Dean’s way had his knees go a little weak. They drifted closer to each other. He tracked the way Cas’s blue gaze darted from his own eyes to his mouth and back again, seemingly unable to settle on one. Dean also didn’t miss the way Cas reached out to his sleeve, latching on with long fingers that Dean could still remember branding into his skin and against his ass. “Maybe I was a bit hasty when I said that we should keep things professional from here on out.” Cas murmured. Dean couldn’t think or get enough brain cells in order to tell him that _absolutely, they should just throw professionalism out the door,_ he just wanted to feel Cas’s skin against his again. He leaned in, feeling how Cas’s breath hitched against his lips.

Suddenly, the door to the costume room sprang open, carrying the voices of students across the room to the dark corner where they were tucked away among a rack of button downs and suit jackets that someone’s grandpa probably had rotting in their closet. Cas leaned back and took a steadying breath. He spared Dean a glance before turning to gather the hats. Three students came around the corner of the room with calls of “Mr. Novak!” and the usual chatter that came with high schoolers, excited about seeing their friends and director and socializing.

Damn. Dean spared a glance at his watch; three o’clock, right on the dot. Time for rehearsal.

Sighing, he followed Cas and the students back down the stairs. They wouldn’t be able to burn the hats until after rehearsal anyway, and as long as he could keep an eye on the students’ rehearsal, he could make sure they and Cas wouldn’t come to any harm in the meantime.


	8. Tenor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this is just porn. Sorry.

Dean was in trouble.

Rehearsal went smoothly enough. Dean sat in the back again, smirking to himself as Cas tried to correct what now was looking like a much deeper attitude problem with the students than before. If they were aiming for Shakespeare, however modern, they were pretty far off the mark. Dean wouldn’t call himself an expert by any means, because seriously—apart from Sammy’s brief stint in middle school theater—he had no idea what constituted as quality work. Still, the kids’ awkward phrasing and flippant half-hearted gestures didn’t lend itself well for showing any sort of respect.

He did have to chuckle at Cas’s attempt at giving stage direction though. It was clear that this was a battle of wills between someone who was never educated on the actual terminology of what was supposed to be happening and kids who didn’t give two shits if they were being given direction or not.

“No, further _up_ the stage, Michael… no—okay, stop there. Perfect. Don’t move.” Cas sighed as he adjusted his glasses, his annoyance apparent even from Dean’s spot a few rows back. He wondered if Cas had any actual acting or directing experience. He said he was originally supposed to be a speech teacher, and Dean could see that a bit more. Cas, with his thick-framed glasses and his pretentious—hot as fuck—eyebrow tilt, absolutely bringing down the house with a debate on foreign politics or whatever other brainiac topic that would have interested him at the time. He could see Cas bent over a thick textbook in a dusty library somewhere in the historic part of Chicago, maybe scribbling notes in a notebook as he pored over it. He also had a rather intriguing image of Cas pressed up against a shelf of those textbooks, collar unbuttoned and yawning to the side, exposing his sharp collarbones, breath panting and scruff dark on his skin, but not quite dark enough to hide the hickey that Dean—

Dean shifted in his seat. Probably not the right time.

After rehearsal, Dean had grabbed the bag Cas had stuffed all the hats into and met him at the doors leading back into the shop. Cas chased away the last of the teenagers at the paint counter, and turned to lock up for the night.

“We still don’t have a good place to burn these.” Dean pointed out. He wasn’t crazy about starting a fire in the parking lot of the motel, and he knew he’d have a trooper on his ass in about twenty minutes if he tried to drive out to the country to do it. With so much open space and farmland, almost everyone was looking out for each other’s property.

Cas shrugged as he nudged the stage weight that was propping open the last door. “Might have to do it one by one in my fireplace, I guess.” He glanced over. “You wanna come over for a drink?”

Dean blanched. “Well… maybe that’s not—“

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” Cas laughed, totally at ease. Totally ignoring the fact that Dean almost had him by the mouth again in the costume room a few hours ago. “We have the hats, and we need somewhere to get rid of them anyway. Nothing untoward. It’s just a drink, not a marriage proposal.” Cas said, the corner of his mouth quirking up in time with the tilt of his eyebrow. The very same one that Dean had fantasized about earlier.

“Uh.” Dean was _super_ intelligent in times like this. He really, _really_ shouldn’t set himself up like this. He knew what would come of any time spent alone with Cas right now. He didn’t want to break his own heart—whatever was left of it—and he certainly didn’t want Cas to feel obligated or anything.

So yeah, Dean was definitely in trouble.

As it was, _just a drink_ turned into three, which almost inevitably turned into Dean and Cas sitting side by side on Cas’s tiny excuse of a sofa, a bottle of whiskey, a few beer bottles, and three shot glasses between them. Dean was pretty sure they’d had four at one point, but one was on the floor or something. He wasn’t actually too sure. The hats still lay in their bag by the side of the couch, and normally Dean would have made sure to finish the job before indulging like this, but his nerves were currently winning in his battle of priorities.

Cas was slung back across one end of the sofa, legs stretched out with his toes tapping against Dean’s foot. Dean leaned back against the other end and just looked. Looked at Cas with his long, loose limbs, and his messy shock of hair—even messier when Cas ran his hands through it. Dean wondered how it was possible for one person to look so good while so disheveled Cas reached up and palmed the back of his neck, drawing Dean’s eyes to the soft swell of his bicep. He knew for a fact that Cas wasn’t as scrawny as his appearance with his shirt or his profession might suggest. Knew that Cas had some muscle of his own there. Sleek, sinewy muscle, like a runner or a swimmer. Built for speed, instead of bulk. Dean also knew the strength he had in his hands, knew it from the grip Cas had kept on him both in the car, dragging him back down to meet his mouth, and by the way he had pulled Dean in when they were in the costume shop earlier.

“This’s a bad idea?” Dean had to wonder aloud.

Cas frowned and nudged his foot solidly. “Why s’this a bad idea?” His brows were furrowed like he was puzzling Dean out.

Shrugging, Dean let his head loll back for a second. “I know what your mouth tastes like.” Couldn’t get the taste of it out of his head actually. He kept replaying the first moment his lips touched Cas’s, and that brilliant electric shock that had coursed through him. He’d felt the sparks come back earlier this afternoon, and he was fighting the urge to see if that same voltage could be attained now.

If possible, Cas frowned harder, his confusion evident in the crook of his eyebrow. “So? I know what yours tastes like too.” He said this like it didn’t make Dean hot under the collar.

“So...” Dean trailed off, distracted when Cas took a sip from his nearby beer, licking a stray drop from the rim. “... so, it’s weird.”

“Then don’t think about it, Dean.” Cas pitched forward and leaned into Dean’s space, peering up at him from beneath his lashes. “Don’t think about it and it’s not weird.”

Dean tried. He really did. He stared hard at Castiel, eyes running over his lips and eyes, down to the open collar of his throat between the buttons Dean can remember undoing with his teeth not 24 hours ago, “Can’t.” he said, pursing his lips grumpily.

“Can’t think about it?” Cas’s confused look was back. “Or can’t _not_ think about it?” Christ, but they were really going to have a hangover the next morning. He backed off, leaving Dean on his side of the sofa.

Dean sighed. “Guess I’m not good at not thinking about it.” He reached for his own beer, twisting at the label. “You’re good at it though.”

“What makes you say that?” Cas smirked.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look at me like that. Like I look at you.”

“How do you look at me?” Cas asked slowly. 

He stopped. Even with this much alcohol in his system, he didn’t want to give himself away. He shook his head. “Too embarrassing.” He admitted, with a sheepish grin.

Cas grinned crookedly. “I like the way you look at me,” he said. “I especially liked the way you were looking at me last night.”

This changed everything if Cas _knew_. Knew how he felt and encouraged it. Dean shifted to press down the butterflies he felt in his stomach and coughed. “I thought we were going to be professional about it.” He looked down the neck of his beer, feeling himself get red.

“Of course,” Cas said. “My apologies.” Even without looking at him, Dean could tell he wasn’t sorry at all. “But how do I look at you? You never said.” 

Dean looked up to see Cas with his head tilted thoughtfully. “You look at me like...” he stopped to consider again. The look in Cas’s eye had him swallowing around a sudden dry throat.

“Like you’re something to eat?” Cas leaned in and smiled with all his teeth, earning a bark of a laugh from Dean.

“Maybe that’s it.” He smiled, despite the feeling of butterflies roiling in his belly again. He really hoped he wasn’t about to puke. That would definitely ruin whatever mood they had going here, as well as bruise his ego for the next few days.

Cas tilted his head and took another sip. “You do look pretty tasty from here.”

Dean blushed, grinning the whole time. “Nah, I prolly taste like cheap beer and cheaper whiskey.”

“Want me to find out?” Cas asked, his smile crooked with intention that stopped Dean in his tracks entirely. 

Dean didn’t have a good answer to that. As Cas tipped forward to press his lips lightly to Dean’s own, something flipped from feeling slightly woozy and drunk to fucking wide awake. Cas was still as good of a kisser as he remembered, and he felt himself leaning into it entirely too much to be a drunken fling. A second-time fling? He eased back from Cas, a hand pressed to Cas’s shoulder where he was pretty sure he’d been holding on for dear life a moment ago. Cas’s gaze searched his, not disappointed. Just watching.

“I really shouldn’t do this.” Dean started, strangely breathless. He scrunched his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry, Cas. It’s—“

Cas’s hands untangled from where they had curled in the front of his shirt, and Dean opened his eyes, cold at the loss of his warmth. “No, I’m sorry, Dean. I assumed—I shouldn’t have done that.”

The butterflies froze in his chest.

“Cas…” he started. Cas shook his head and leaned back against the other end of the sofa.

“That was rude of me. You said no, and I kept pushing. My deepest apologies..” He sounded oddly formal in his embarrassment. Dean stared as Cas’s hands started fluttering around the coffee table, gathering beer bottles and shot glasses, pink in the cheeks. He moved to stand. To leave. Dean panicked.

Without thinking, Dean threw himself across the sofa, intercepting Cas’s hand as he moved. With one hand, he turned Cas’s face to his and locked onto his mouth again. With the other, he wrapped around the back of Cas’s neck and pulled him in tight. He got his thumbs on either side of Cas’s jaw and opened his jaw so his tongue could taste Cas’s. He trailed his tongue along Cas’s soft palate before the other man got with the program and swung a leg over his lap. Cas pinned him back against the sofa, and fucking _ground down_ with those hips of his. Dean couldn’t move, his arms were up by his shoulders, being pressed into the fabric upholstery by the other man’s strong hands. His legs were spread wide to accommodate the welcome weight in his lap. He pressed up into the friction, groaning into the next kiss. This was just as good as he remembered last night. Maybe better, now that he had some idea of what to expect. He really wanted to get his fingers into that wild, dark hair, but Cas didn’t look like he was up for giving him any independent mobility any time soon. Dean finally pulled back to gasp out for air. Cas nipped at his neck, before pulling away as well.

Cas squinted at him. “Why did you do that?” He asked, his voice whiskey-rough and lust-stoned. Dean felt himself twitch. If Cas knew how he felt, encouraged it, and was pressing for more… maybe it wouldn’t hurt to indulge one last time.

“I changed my mind. I really wanna do this.” Dean was definitely breathless now, his gaze skittering all over Cas’s face. He could feel his pants getting tight, and by the look in Cas’s eye, he was about two seconds from losing his shirt. He also couldn’t decide if his earlier goal to get his hands in Cas’s hair was as important as his new goal to get those same hands down Cas’s pants.

Cas didn’t say anything for a moment before frowning. “Are you drunk?”

Shaking his head, Dean tried to focus on something other than his raging libido. “No. Are you drunk?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Another pause. “Are you sure?”

Which, alright. Very fair question. Dean nodded and leaned in again, whining when Cas pulled back again. “Please, Cas.”

Cas leaned in until his lips were a millimeter from Dean’s. “I knew it,” he whispered hotly, his lips twisted in a smirk Dean desperately wanted to feel against his own mouth. “I knew you were jealous about Melody. And I knew you wanted this again.” Cas moved his hands from Dean’s wrists to better support his weight while he made himself more comfortable in Dean’s lap.

“Yeah, I really fucking want it.” Dean breathed into him, pressing up at an angle to get at Cas’s mouth.

Cas gave back as good as he got, scratching through Dean’s hair in a way that set him on fire. “That’s okay,” he whispered back. “I want it, too. Been thinking about it all day.”

Dean’s hands came up to his hips, cupping the strong muscle there as he pressed his fingers into it. He scooted down further into the couch, pulling Cas’s weight into him. It was nice, sitting here on the sofa, just making out with Cas. Of course, he had other ideas in mind of what he’d like to do, but getting there was half the fun.

The other man was getting impatient though, it seemed. Cas hitched his hips forward, pressing them together all along their fronts. Dean gasped as he felt exactly how into this Cas was too. The feel of another man’s cock throbbing against his, even through a few layers of cloth was overwhelmingly sexy, and as Dean laid his head back to the feel of Cas’s teeth along his carotid artery, he couldn’t help thinking that it was a damn shame he hadn’t been able to show up to the hospital that morning and show off the big ol’ hickey on his neck that was already there from the previous night to put Melody in her place. Maybe now he would with a matching one on the other side.

“Dean, can I touch you?” Cas murmured into his skin, punctuating it with a lush kiss. Dean nodded, pushing against the other man’s body to make some room to get his shirt open. Cas’s hands replaced his, smoothing down the sides and deftly undoing the row of buttons. His touch was warm, tracing up the planes of his chest and down to where his stomach muscles were jumping. Cas pushed Dean’s flannel shirt off his shoulders, Dean leaning forward slightly to help. He kept one arm wrapped tight around Cas’s waist to steady him. Cas tossed the flannel to the side, backing out of Dean’s grip and away from his mouth. Dean moved to follow, but was pushed back with a firm hand to the middle of his chest.

Shimmying down, Cas dropped to his knees in front of Dean. With a hand on each knee, he parted Dean’s legs, making room for himself there. Dean struggled against the instinct to close his legs, feeling a little too exposed. He knew he was watching Cas with a dopey, drugged expression, his mouth partly open and his breath coming in puffs. Cas looked up at him and licked his lips. “Can I suck you off?”

Dean managed a nod and heaved a lungful of too-hot air before Cas’s hands went to his belt buckle. The jangling of metal sounded loud in their tense bubble, and as Dean sat up a bit to facilitate Cas sliding the belt through the loops of his jeans, he glanced quickly towards the window, where the lamp sat. Anyone could probably see in and watch them getting cozy with each other. He shifted in his seat.

Cas glanced up, and followed his skittering gaze. He got up fluidly, which allowed Dean to appreciate the _very nice_ bulge at the front of his slacks, and walked over to click the lamp off. The room was cast into darkness, lit only by the light-up sign from the grocery store across the street and the changing stop light on the corner. Dean barely managed a nod of thanks, for understanding his weird hangups, before Cas sank down again in front of him, palms trailing up his thighs like brands, scorching the surface and leaving light in their wake.

“Oh shit.” Dean heard himself whine, and he leaned his head back, gaping up at the ceiling as Cas wasted no time pulling his zipper down and reaching inside to pull him out. He’d had plenty of blow jobs before, but the fact that it was Cas—the same person who’d been driving him crazy all day—made it that much sweeter.

Pressing kisses to the head and down the shaft, Cas kept his eyes on Dean, moving with him as his hips rolled. When he clenched the fabric of the sofa, Cas went harder. When he relaxed and took a deep breath, Cas changed tactics. Dean felt like he was being strung along higher and higher, with no chance to get used to the sensations. He was fully aware he was getting worked up much faster than he usually did. Dean’s gasps turned into higher-pitched whimpers as he felt Cas’s warm hand sneak down and grind a knuckle into a patch of skin behind his balls that made him see fucking stars.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing to me, man?” He felt slightly hysterical asking. Cas smirked around his cock—and seriously, who _does_ that?—and sank all the way down, taking him deep into his throat. The fucker winked and swallowed. Dean gripped the other man’s shoulder as his stomach muscles contracted and he felt his eyes cross with the force of his orgasm. He hitched forward and felt his groans take on an urgent note. Dean was going to die here, and he was going to die the happiest son of a bitch on the planet. He jerked each time Cas lapped at the head of his cock, hovering on the edge of overstimulation, muggy galaxies still swimming in his vision.

He was still panting and sprawled bonelessly when Cas finally granted him mercy and popped back up, grinning smugly. Cas sat next to him on the couch, pants tented obscenely, and with a low fire burning in his eyes, even in the dim light. Dean tried to make himself more comfortable to lie on when Cas fit himself next to him, but his muscles still weren’t cooperating.

“So, was it good?” Cas asked as he sucked at a spot under Dean’s ear, causing him to have to rein in a whine. Cas continued laving at the spot, and the sound of his breath in Dean’s ear was causing quite the rally effort in Dean’s pants. 

He blinked. “Shit.” He croaked, his voice hollow enough to let Dean know that yes, he had actually been crying out exactly as loud as he dreaded he had been during that whole episode. He frowned when he heard Cas laugh softly.

“You’ve been holding out on me.” He accused gently, turning enough to snag Cas’s mouth again, fucking in between his lips in retribution. “Or maybe you’re just a show off.” He nipped at Cas’s bottom lip, feeling a tick of a smile when it made Cas’s breath stutter.

“Definitely a show off,” he answered. “Fuck, Dean. I love kissing you.”

Dean couldn’t disagree, especially when Cas proceeded to show how much he enjoyed kissing him by pulling him sideways so they lay atop one another. Dean lost his t-shirt quickly, and Cas was running his hands over his chest, thumbing across his nipples with pleasurable electricity thrumming between them. Despite his best intentions, Dean likely wasn’t getting it up again soon. He could still feel his stomach muscles jumping from his orgasm as Cas tried to rile him up again. He could still get Cas hot though, and—given the impressive erection Cas was grinding into his hip—that was his current goal.

Cas pulled back, breathing heavily. “What does this tattoo mean?” His fingers skated over the black star-sun over his heart.

“Protection,” Dean panted back. “Not that kind—“ he scoffed at Cas’s smirk, “Protection from demons, that sorta thing.”

“Do I want to know about demons?” Cas asked, gasping into the air of the living room as Dean set out to give him a hickey that matched his.

Snorting, Dean rolled his hips firmly to give Cas something to thrust against. “Honey, I hope you never have to know about demons.”

Cas grinned, stroking over the ink. “Such a charmer.” He yanked Dean back down with an arm around the neck. Dean couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to have a habit of getting this man in the same position two nights in a row. Or maybe Cas had the habit of getting him in this position.

“Hey,” Dean pulled back, licking his lips and chasing the taste of Cas off his mouth. “Can I try something?”

The wide-eyed look on Cas’s face told him that Cas was willing to try about anything Dean asked if it meant getting their mouths back together and their skin touching again. Still panting, Cas nodded.

“I—I’ve never… done it before—“ Dean was nervous, performance anxiety like he hadn’t experienced since he was sixteen. “But… I still wanna try it.” He hauled himself upright, before clumsily settling on his knees at Cas’s feet. He glanced up at Cas meaningfully, half-terrified and half-aroused out of his mind.

Dean didn’t think Cas’s eyes could go any wider, or his irises any blacker, but he was dead wrong. “You want to give me a blow job?” Cas gritted out, his fingers clenching around nothing.

Nodding, Dean swallowed hard. “I haven’t done it or anything,” he said quickly, not wanting to get Cas’s hopes up if he was truly awful at it. Who knew? What if he threw up or did something equally and horrifyingly embarrassing? “You have to—tell me what to do.” He cleared his throat when his voice cracked. He settled his gaze at Cas’s knee, still covered with his work slacks, though the zipper was splayed open. He focused on the strong joint there, where he knew Cas was packing some strength in his legs, had felt them wrapped around his hips. He knew this must not look sexy or anything, the way he was on his knees, nervous about giving a blow job. He’d gotten dozens of them over the years, he didn’t mind bragging. Surely, if some random short dark-haired, light-eyed waitress in the middle of rural Ohio could make him come so hard he blacked out momentarily, he could give this his best shot.

Then again, he was starting to see a pattern in the people he chose to fall for—however temporarily.

A hand under his chin jerked him out of his reverie, and his gaze was pulled to meet Cas’s. Cas seemed to be searching his face, intense as anything, just probing his expression. “You know I’m not expecting anything, right?” Cas asked lowly, his words going against what his eyes were practically screaming. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” Dean answered quickly, surprising himself even. He knew he wanted Cas’s dick something awful, wanted to feel the heft of it forcing his jaw wide, wanted to wring noises out of Cas until he couldn’t see straight. He just didn’t know how much he was willing to admit that to the man attached to the dick in question.

He shuffled forward on his knees, running his hands up Cas’s slacks until he got to his fly. “Please, Cas,” he whispered. He reached in between the flaps of his pants and stroked him gently through the navy boxers underneath. Cas’s cock was hot and so, _so_ hard underneath the fabric. The man above him sighed, his breathing ragged. Cas tipped his head back at the feel of Dean’s hand. Cas’s fists were clenching beside his thighs. Feeling daring, Dean reached for his hand. Cas tried to intertwine their fingers, but that wasn’t what Dean was after. He pressed Cas’s hand to the back of his head, Cas’s fingers twisting gently into his hair.

“Okay,” Cas whispered, “I’ll show you how.” He fit his other hand to the curve of Dean’s jaw, and when Dean thought he was going to get pushed down, Cas tilted his head up to look at him again. Dean unscrewed his eyes just in time to get tugged back up to kiss Cas. It must have been an awkward angle, with Cas leaning down, and Dean straining upward, but he couldn’t care less. Frankly, any time spent away from kissing Cas was time wasted, in Dean’s opinion. There was a new hunger to the kiss now, like Cas was doing his very best to worm his way inside Dean’s skin. Cas pulled away. “You have to relax,” he whispered. “I promise not to choke you, but if you’re tense like that, it won’t be good for either of us.” He kissed Dean again. “Relax for me, baby.”

Dean sucked on his tongue for a moment before pulling back and nodding. “I want to do this,” he nuzzled against Cas’s temple once more before setting back on his knees. He took a breath and pulled Cas’s cock out from underwear, where it stood proudly in the dim light. He could hear Cas panting above him. Cas still had his hands in Dean’s hair, stroking instead of pulling. Dean licked his lips and leaned in, pressing a wet kiss to the head, keeping his eyes on Cas’s expression. When he heard Cas’s breath hitch above him, he grinned to himself and leaned in again, this time taking the entire head into his mouth and swirling his tongue around, tasting the tacky precome. Keeping his teeth out of the way, he leaned forward and sank down as far as he could, which wasn’t very far, if he was being critically honest. He suctioned around the shaft, pulling a grunt from Cas. He started a rhythm bobbing up and down, using his hands on what he couldn’t fit in his mouth.

“Fuck, Dean, so good,” he could hear Cas babble above him. “Fuck you mean, this is your first time? Ah—!” Cas yipped a bit as Dean’s teeth caught him in a sensitive spot, but it quickly turned into a long groan as Dean soothed it with his tongue. Dean settled in closer, pushing Cas’s knees further apart, in an effort to get closer. Cas’s hands were so tightly clenched in his hair, still not pulling, but enough to make tears spring into Dean’s eyes. Not that he dreamed of being anywhere else.

Dean was surprised to find that this was doing it for him too. Maybe he wasn’t surprised though—everything with Cas seemed to do it for him. Cas was encouraging without being patronizing, just genuinely glad to be there with Dean. He didn’t seem to mind that it was Dean’s first time giving head, and was instead just enjoying the attention. Dean wasn’t sure if he should feel sorry for the guy that even a first-timer’s attempt was apparently getting him off, or smug about the fact that he seemed to turn Cas on as much as the reverse was true.

He must have been doing this for some time, because before long, he felt Cas’s hands again, pulling him up and away. “Dean, I—I’m going to come—“ and Dean dove down with renewed fervor. Cas thought he’d be too chickenshit to go for the whole deal? Fuck that. He groaned around the feel of Cas’s cock, his jaw wider than he thought it could go. Finally, _finally_ , he felt Cas’s hands pulling him closer, really going for it now. “Fuck, Dean—!” Cas let loose a pained grunt and came.

In all honesty, Dean was a little caught off guard. The flavor wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever had, but the fact that it was the result of his efforts taking Cas apart was what made it so appealing. He tried to get it all down, but he knew he missed some as it dripped down his chin. He pressed kisses to Cas’s cock as he worked through the aftershocks. When he finally leaned back to wipe his face, they were both panting.

Cas shifted to tuck himself away, his hands trembling. Dean leaned back on his hands, propping his knees in front of him, knocking lightly into Cas. “How’d I do? Notes?” He was only a little breathless. He worked his jaw a few times.

“Very adequate. Probably went too deep at first, but… that’s fixable.” Cas grinned at him.

Dean chuckled. “Fixable, huh?” He lounged back, settling into his elbows. He huffed a sigh at the ceiling. “That’s hard work, you made it look easy.”

Cas laughed too, “I’ve had years more practice, don’t sweat it.” He tilted his head, still smiling, before heaving himself off the couch and pushing back into Dean’s space on the floor. He laid over Dean’s body and crowded in close for a kiss. “Not that you should, anyway. That was thoroughly” he pecked Dean’s cheek, “absolutely” his other cheek “satisfactory.”

They laid on the floor making out for a while longer, both wiped out and stinking like sex. Eventually, Cas pulled away and straightened up, reaching down for Dean’s hand to pull him up too. “I think it's time for bed, don't you?”

Dean grinned and let himself be pulled. His gaze happened to catch on the bag that had been kicked over by the sofa. The hats spilled from the bag, some under the sofa where he’d have to lean all the way down to reach them. Great.

“Never got around to burning those, did we?” He nudged one with his toe.

“Later,” Cas said, tugging him down the hall back towards where Dean knew his bedroom waited. “Plenty of time for that tomorrow.”

Dean had to agree.


	9. Cresendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another morning after, followed by some reality.

The next time Dean woke up on the side of Cas’s bed, he wasn’t alone. Though he knew Cas was cuddly when he slept, he could now also add the following fact to his List of Things He Knew About Castiel Novak: the man was a fucking _octopus_ when he was comfortable. Cas currently had an arm and leg thrown over Dean’s own, anchoring him to the bed beneath them. His face was pressed—and Dean would never say unattractively, but come on—to the curve of Dean’s bicep. He wondered how Cas was able to breathe properly tucked that close.

The light was starting to come in from the window, dimmed only slightly by the curtains that were drawn haphazardly over the glass. The slight noise from the highway just outside was already starting to come through with the rising of the morning. Dean sighed. They probably had to get up and get moving, didn’t they? Had a whole bag of hats to burn, ghosts to expel, messes to clean up.

And Dean should think about heading on his way.

He didn’t really mean to get caught up with Cas again after the first time. Every time he kissed Cas, he knew it was going to be harder to pull away. One of the shittiest things about this life was how many people he had to leave behind, both physically and metaphorically. Even if by some miracle, Cas didn’t end up dead or injured because of him in the long run, there wasn’t a whole lot about Dean that would be suitable for anything resembling a long term relationship.

He wondered if Cas would offer to call or text when he was gone. A perfunctory offer, no doubt. It wasn’t like Dean would be any better at a long distance thing. Maybe they’d make half-hearted plans to meet up the next time he was in the area.

Or maybe Cas would just smile and shut the door after him, not another word spoken between them about the issue.

Dean scrubbed a hand (the one not attached to Cas’s current shoulder pillow) and stared up at the ceiling. This should be the last time he looks at this ceiling. The case was already drawn out far longer than it should be. His dad would definitely have some choice words about how long it was taking him to expel a fucking vengeful spirit.

Suddenly, Cas stirred beside him. Dean made sure to hold very still as Cas dragged himself back into the land of the living. When he finally blinked and turned his big blue eyes on Dean, he offered Cas a small smile, not daring to say anything in the morning quiet. Not knowing what even to say.

Cas knew what to say, apparently. “I don’t know why, but I thought you’d be gone by the time I woke up.” He smiled sleepily and burrowed his face back into the warmth of Dean’s skin.

Dean’s heart sunk. “I… can be gone. Sorry, I didn’t…?” He fumbled and started to pull away. He was sure his pants were on the floor beside them, but his shirt might still be out in the living room. He was stopped by Cas tightening his limbs around Dean’s.

“Don’t even think about it, cowboy.” Cas growled. Dean froze. “You’re warm, and the apartment’s always fucking freezing in the morning,” Cas continued. “Let me at least make you breakfast before you start your usual brooding and stalking around.”

Dean huffed with a wry smile. “I do not _brood._ ” He consented to settling back in, however. He pulled the covers more firmly on top of Cas with his free hand.

“Sure you do,” Cas mumbled, sounding well on his way to going back to sleep. “You brood when you’re in the car, you brood when you’re reading. A real tragic character you are.”

Dean smiled and nudged him. “Thought maybe you’d want to kick me out after my truly awful premier performance at giving a blowjob last night.” He ribbed, changing the subject.

Cas sighed, and hauled himself up to push up into Dean’s personal space, smacking a sleepy kiss against his cheek. Dean thrilled inwardly at the feel of his stubble scraping over Dean’s. “I told you it was good. It’s a shame you couldn’t see the pretty picture you made down on your knees.” He shifted up and threw a leg over Dean’s lap, straddling him in the bed. He leaned in real close and hovered like he wanted a kiss, but was waiting for permission. Dean leaned forward and kissed him, intending on just a peck, but quickly shifting into something sweeter.

Shit, was this the new relationship dynamic they were working with? Dean couldn’t say he hated it.

He settled on being as vague as physically possible. “I know we said we should keep things professional after that first time. Do you think we should... talk? About last night?” He was already cringing.

Cas surveyed Dean with a serenity that Dean couldn’t help but feel Cas had adopted purely to mess with him. “You always want to talk, don’t you?” He asked. Dean couldn’t help but notice he was avoiding the question.

“Do you not want to talk about it?”

Cas leaned back against Dean’s hands. Dean could see the barest hint of the tell-tale hickey around his nipple where Dean had been so overwhelmed last night. “I’m not under any pretenses about what this means for you, Dean.” He sounded serious and… sad? “I’m not expecting you to stay forever just because we’ve…” he trailed off.

“—severely realigned my understanding of my own sexuality?” Dean couldn’t help but try to lighten Cas’s melancholy tone.

It worked, and Cas cracked a grin. “I’m totally fine with us just messing around while you’re in town.” He leaned in and cuffed Dean around the jaw. “That is, if you are. I promise I won’t try and push you into it again if you really don’t want to.”

“Yeah, look how well that worked out for me the last time.” Dean gestured to the two of them, chuckling.

Cas rolled his eyes. “I won’t promise not to be disappointed if you say no, and I’ll forever remember you as the hot stranger that blew into town to tell me my school was haunted, but no… I just like being with you. And kissing you, if that’s acceptable.”

“Well—“ And because Dean was a weak, _weak_ man, Cas knew he had won just by his tone.

“Was the second time everything you remembered” Cas was smirking now. He leaned in real close to Dean again and got right next to his ear. Dean closed his eyes, feeling his fingers flex against Cas’s hot bare skin. Cas’s lips tripped over his skin as he spoke. “Did you get the full effect of the stubble, and the hands pulling at you?”

“Cas...” Geez, Dean was working on one hell of an erection in Cas’s bed at not-even-seven in the morning. Dean’s head was spinning and a pleasant buzz started under his skin. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with Cas and this... alluring attitude that had gotten him flat on his back more than once. Where Cas might have been a bit shaky on ghost hunting, and lying to get information, and maybe even directing high school theater, he was apparently on rock solid ground when it came to seducing Dean. It was most definitely _not_ a one-time thing. Or even a two-time thing, given recent evidence. Not if Dean had anything to say about it. Well, Little Dean—Downstairs Dean—was not strictly part of this conversation, but if the situation necessitated it...

“I’m going to take a shower.” Cas pulled away suddenly, and Dean blinked back to the reality of lying under Castiel, both of them still naked and touching a million different places.

Dumbfounded and more than a little lust drunk, Dean stuttered. “Uh, okay.”

“Give me ten minutes and we’ll find something for breakfast.” Cas hoisted himself out of bed, leaving the covers knocked off of Dean, the chill of the bedroom permeating their warm bubble. All he could do was watch as Cas disappeared into the hallway.

“Right.” Dean said quietly to an empty bedroom.

The shower started in the next room, a breathy scream of water that shook Dean out of his trance. He was naked in a man’s bedroom, ten feet away from that man—also naked— who was apparently very willing to continue making out with Dean, and said man just announced he was going to go get wet and soapy _alone_ in the next room.

“I’m an idiot.” Dean said aloud. And took off for the bathroom.

The bathroom was filled with steam by the time Dean got his goofy ass in gear. Cas hadn’t been wearing anything when he walked in here, so there weren’t any clothes around the bathroom, nothing except for a neatly folded gray towel sitting on the toilet tank. Dean noticed a similar gray towel waited on the counter. Almost like Cas was expecting another guest in his bathroom. Dean took a breath of the steamy air, the buzz under his skin kicking up into overdrive. He slid open the shower curtain just enough to slip inside without getting water anywhere.

Cas didn’t even turn around. “Dean.”

“Hey.”

“Come to join me?” He glanced over his shoulder, popping the lid on a bottle of shampoo. He turned and motioned for Dean to do the same so his back was to Cas.

“Yeah. So... um, I was thinking...” Dean jumped only slightly as Castiel’s hand—full of shampoo—came down on his head and started massaging into his scalp. It felt nice. “Maybe later, after rehearsal… and after we burn those hats… you, me, a case of beer, and maybe the stars?”

Cas worked his hands into Dean’s hair, tugging him back to switch places with him under the spray. He gently tipped his head back to wash out the suds, and chuckled softly. “So now that we’re officially messing around, you want it all the time, is that right?” He didn’t sound judgmental or like he was making fun of Dean. He sounded... pleased.

Dean stuttered. “Uh, well, it—it was good, right?”

“Yes, Dean.” Cas sounded like he was smiling.

“And how else am I supposed to get better at giving head?” Dean was panting at the feel of Cas’s hands in his hair by now. He would promise all sorts of things to keep that tingly feeling running over his skin, and the feel of Cas’s breath in his ear. 

Cas hummed. “Careful, Dean. I might think you enjoy going down on other men.”

“It’s just you, I think.” Dean turned around to face Cas. He tugged the shampoo bottle from his hands and squirted some in his own palm. He twirled his finger to get Cas to turn to return the favor of washing his hair. He didn’t usually do this with people he slept with, but he was starting to think that rule book didn’t apply here.

“You’re such a kiss-ass.” Cas was practically purring under his hands. Dean rolled his eyes as he pushed his fingers through his thick hair. Cas sure had him by the balls here. He wasn’t sure Cas really knew that though.

“I can do that too, if you show me what you like.” He was really laying it on thick here, but he didn’t lie. He _did_ need it bad. He led Cas back under the spray to rinse out his hair. He ducked forward and kissed gently along the shell of his ear when he was sure he wasn’t going to get shampoo in his mouth. He dropped his voice to a near-whisper. “Please Cas.” He laid a smooch along Cas’s shoulder for good measure, emboldened by the shudder he felt from Cas.

Cas turned around and eased his arms up around Dean’s shoulders. “Alright.”

He leaned in and pressed his lips to Cas’s, immediately slipping him tongue because he figured if he was only going to get to mess around with Cas while he was in town, he might as well go for broke. “Give it to me, please.” He panted against Cas’s mouth after a few seconds.

“What, you want it now?” Cas blinked at him disbelievingly for a moment before he dove back in, not giving him much of a chance to tell him what he wanted.

“Yes—yeah, I do. Right now.” Dean stuttered between kisses. He was surprised and not-surprised to find that it was true. He hadn’t known it, but it was _really_ true.

Cas shook his head. “You’re really something, Dean Winchester.” He held his face just out of reach, pulling back with a teasing smile.

“Kiss me.” Dean found himself pleading. “Fuck honey, please keep kissing me.”

Cas turned them and pinned Dean to the shower wall. The water was running in Dean’s eyes, and getting in his nose, but he couldn’t make himself let go. Cas’s hands ran slick over his skin, pulling his hips forward to grind against him. The feel of their cocks sliding together was driving Dean a little crazy, and his nails scrabbled a little against the skin of Cas’s back trying to get him to stay _put_. The buzzing under his skin that started in the bedroom was causing his heart to jackhammer against his ribcage and his cheeks to flush crimson. It didn’t seem to die down with his proximity to Cas. 

“Can we promise not to do it drunk this time, though?” Cas pulled away again, not going far. His gaze was roving all over Dean’s face, and Dean was nearly cross-eyed trying to look at him. “Not that you’re not fun to drink with, but I’d much rather not have to work through a headache the morning after again.”

“Whatever you want.” Dean admitted, panting open-mouthed in the two inches between their mouths. “Whatever you say.”

“Such a sweet talker.” He pressed one last peck to Dean’s mouth. He nodded. “I’ll let you practice later. Let me get my mouth on you first.” Dropping to his knees, he shoved Dean’s legs apart, making him scramble to hang on to the soap tray and the shower head to stay upright.

“Fffffuck.” Dean slurred as Cas sucked him down to the root right there. He thunked his head against the shower wall and let Cas have his way with him. Any plans he had of thinking for the next half hour were well on their way out of his head.

…

The rest of their day was a bit of a blur of hands and lips and heat. When they dragged each other out of the shower, they’d made breakfast, practically hanging off each other in the kitchen. Then they’d taken a trip to the grocery store next door, Cas citing a desperate need for food besides toast and eggs. Cas had kept touching him throughout the trip—grabbing his sleeve for his attention, nudging him this way and that—until Dean gave up and held Cas’s dumb hand like he had wanted to all along. He definitely didn’t do this with one night stands, even less frequently did this with friends-with-benefits, but it felt nice. The fact that it would be over the minute he left town also had Dean wanting to treat this like it was special. He dutifully ignored the glances of the townspeople, Cas’s neighbors, as they picked their way through the store. He was happy for a while, and he wanted to keep it greedily for himself.

Rehearsal after school even went well, all things considered. Dean kept his usual watchful post near the back of the theater, right up until Cas came up and pulled him to the front row where he sat while the kids were on a break.

He had to admit, the show was _slightly_ better in the front, even if he still couldn’t string enough attention together to figure out which show they were even doing. At this point, he was afraid to ask Cas, in case it was supposed to be obvious. He instead kept his eyes on the man next to him. He did chuckle at Cas’s running commentary under his breath about the stage direction, and the kids’ attitude, and generally everything else that was going wrong. He didn’t want to point it out, but as he listened to Cas shout suggestions and reminders left and right, and follow along without even looking at the script, it sounded like Cas genuinely knew what he was doing and what he wanted out of the show, even if the kids weren’t willing to give it to him. Dean thought that Cas was probably working on some innate talent he didn’t even know he had, or was willing to admit to if he did.

They cooked dinner together too. Cas admitted that pasta was about the breadth of his culinary skill, so Dean gallantly offered to make cheeseburgers, showing Cas how the broiler in the oven could be used just as well as a grill. Dean was then treated to the absolute _privilege_ of watching Cas take the first bite and surprise even himself with a moan of happiness.

After supper and with a (totally reasonable) glass of wine in hand, Dean said they absolutely _had_ to burn the hats today, or it wouldn’t get done. Cas had obligingly agreed and started bustling around, building a fire in his ancient excuse of a fireplace. It wasn’t suspicious for someone to have a fire in November, it was getting colder out all the time. When the fire was roaring, he and Dean chucked the hats in there one by one, watching each one burn to ashes. He was reasonably sure they got all of them, but he was admittedly distracted when Cas suddenly pinned him to the floor in front of the fire, bracketing his head with his forearms and leaning in to give him a filthy kiss.

And if they fucked right there in front of the fire, all slow hands and drawn out sensation? Well… no one had ever said Dean _wasn’t_ a romantic at heart.

But all good things must come to an end.

Later that night, or early the next morning—Dean wasn’t sure—he woke up suddenly. Cas was quickly proving to be a bit of a restless bedfellow, and Dean noticed if he wasn’t there. The space beside him was empty, and a quick check of the clock told him it was hardly past three in the morning. Dean saw the light coming in from the living room, and stumbled out of bed to the living room.

“Hmm... Cas? Why’re you out here?” Dean blinked at the light of the lamp, bright next to the darkness of Cas’s bedroom.

“Sorry, go back to bed.” Cas’s voice was gruff, and he was facing away from Dean, looking out the window.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Y’okay?” He crossed the room to where Cas was standing.

“Yeah, just couldn’t sleep.”

“Want me to put you to sleep?” Dean draped an arm over his shoulder and smiled sleepily at their reflection in the window.

Cas’s smile did not reach his eyes. “That’s okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Fine, Dean.”

“Got it.” Dean recognized the dismissal and went back to the bedroom, laying down on the far side again. He was still a little squeamish about calling it _his_ side, even in his head. He rolled over and faced the wall, waiting for Cas to come back. He kept an eye on the green-numbered alarm clock on the bedside table. Watched it click through an hour. Then two hours. Three. Still, Cas didn’t return to bed.

He sat up, looking towards where the living room light was still on. He threw back the covers again and crept to the bedroom door as quietly as he could. If he stayed on the balls of his feet, he could lean around the corner to see Cas. Just to check on him, he reasoned. Not that Cas needed a reason to be up in the middle of the night. He knew Cas was a fitful sleeper, tossing and turning most of the night when Dean was there, which was a few nights now. Maybe he just didn’t sleep well with others?

Peering around the wall, Dean scanned the living room. He straightened up and walked into the room proper. Cas was gone. Dean raised an eyebrow. Had he left? He didn’t hear the door open.

Weird.

Six am wouldn’t be a weird time for anyone else to be up, but Cas didn’t currently have a job worth getting up this early for.

As for the brush-off behavior earlier, Dean had been getting used to being clingy with Cas over the course of the day, but maybe… that was it? Maybe Cas was starting to regret letting Dean stay here, and was hoping Dean would have been gone by now?

He didn’t want to admit it, but that stung more than anything had in a while. He knew he was fooling himself, playing house like this. He knew it wasn’t going to last, but he had been enjoying it while it lasted.

Maybe it was a good thing they had burned the hats last night. He had been toying with the idea of staying for Cas’s show, both to support Cas, but also to check that the spirit truly was gone, but maybe it’d be better if he hit the road earlier rather than later. Cas could always get ahold of him if it didn’t work. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Dean felt his heart sink at the thought.

Dean decided to bite the bullet and get out of bed to start looking for his things. He wasn’t sure where Cas was, and he definitely wanted to check in before he left, but he could keep his hands busy for now. Most of his things had migrated over to Cas’s place. He had checked out of the motel earlier yesterday, at Cas’s insistence that Dean stay with him. This definitely conflicted with the message Cas had sent by leaving in the middle of the night, but… whatever.

While he packed, he found his dad’s journal and started leafing through it. He wondered if he should add a supplemental entry going over what he had found here in Central City. This spirit certainly hadn’t followed a lot of the rules he’d expected, and if he ever ran into one like it again, he wouldn’t mind having as much intel as possible. He sat down at Cas’s table, still littered with folders and dossiers from their impromptu research session the other day. He picked up one of Cas’s pens, this one from some pizza place in Chicago, and flipped to a clean page.

So far, the spirit hadn’t responded to salt or iron for very long like others did. They knew Oswald was working mainly by possession here. Had possessed Adler— _been_ possessing Adler—and who knows how many other people on his mad killing spree in the theater over the years. Whatever mojo he had, he was clearly made of something stronger than your average Casper. Dean profiled out Oswald as best he could on the worn pages, trying to include everything he and Cas had dug up. The timelines seemed to fit nicely together. When a death had occurred in the school, the principal or drama teacher never seemed to stick around long afterwards, and were usually replaced. If Oswald was jumping from person to person, he’d be able to stick around for a damn long time.

Dean glanced at the fireplace. They had cleaned out the ashes from the hats last night as well, not willing to actually keep anything from their scrape with Oswald’s ghost. Hopefully the hats were the last thing tying Oswald to this plane of existence. Without the DNA to hold him to the hats, he’d hopefully disappear and be unable to get a new host.

He must have been writing for some time. The sunlight from the big windows was slanted differently by the time he looked up at the sound of a doorknob turning. Dean relaxed the reflexive grip on the hilt of his pistol when he saw it was Cas letting himself in. He was dressed in his usual day wear, which means that he had planned to leave before Dean found him in the living room this morning. 

Dean tried to smile. “Cas. Didn’t know where you’d gone.”

Cas did not return the smile. “School.” He said simply.

Raising an eyebrow, Dean responded with the same coolness. Clearly nothing had changed since the wee hours of this morning. “Awesome. So, is everything… okay?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” Cas asked. He looked down to glance at his watch. “You’re still here?”

Dean blinked. “Uh sorry, I was just getting some notes taken down. Case stuff, you know.”

Cas hummed like he hadn’t basically asked Dean to get the fuck out of his apartment. Dean looked up at the ceiling, trying not to let his hurt show on his face. “So, you wanna grab dinner before I go? Old time’s sake?” He tried one last time. _Please don’t do this, Cas,_ he thought to himself. _Don’t cut me off like this._

Huffing, Cas whirled to face him. “What, you can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I’m sorry?” Dean repeated for the second time in the last minute.

“God, forget it.” Cas stalked off to the bedroom, where the door was open. Dean’s bags were packed and sitting in the living room by the door. Dean spared them a look before glancing back towards the bedroom. Something was clearly bothering Cas. He knew damn well that he should take the mood shift for what it was and hit the road. Screw Cas and his attitude. If he wasn’t interested, there was absolutely zero reason for Dean to stick around. He didn’t have to fret over this. He didn’t have to check in to see what was wrong. He packed up the journal, tossing the pen on the table. He walked over to stuff the journal in a side pocket of his bag, scooping it up to throw over his shoulder. Hand on the doorknob, Dean stopped.

He cursed and threw his bag down on the couch again. He followed where Cas had gone to the bedroom and rapped on the open door.

Inside, Cas was holding a book propped up in bed. The bedside lamp was on, but it was clear that Cas hadn’t really been reading. He’d been waiting for Dean to leave. When Cas looked up and saw Dean in the doorway, he sighed and rolled his eyes.“Can’t you take a hint? I’m not interested.”

Dean swallowed, and opened the door fully. He leaned against the frame. “Guess that’s not how it seemed last night—“

Cas pinched the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t wearing his glasses for once. “Look, can we not deal with this? I’m tired and—“

“No, we’re gonna talk about this right now. Are you okay, Cas?” Dean was angry, though he knew he had no right to be. If Cas was done with him, that was fine. He was just feeling a bit of whiplash between this cold attitude and the bright warmth from all day yesterday… and every other day in the short time he had known Cas.

“Of course I’m okay.” Cas snorted. “And anyway, it’s not really any of your business how I’m doing.”

“What the fuck, man? Are you… mad at me or something? We knew I had to leave.” Dean was quickly switching gears from angry to outright bewildered.

“What the fuck? You’re gonna say that to me right now?” Cas threw the book to the side and stood. He started advancing on Dean. “You know what the fuck, Dean. Don’t play dumb.”

Dean was _really_ confused now. He didn’t think Cas would take his leaving this… personally. “I don’t—. Cas, we talked about me leaving. I have to go.“

Cas laughed horribly, and so unlike his usual. “You think I’m upset about you _leaving?_ If that was the problem, I’d just ask you to say.” He got around the bed and was backing Dean up into the wall. “The problem is that you can’t leave _fast enough.”_

“Uh. Ouch, Cas.” Dean held up his hands.

Cas continued to advance, pointing a finger at his chest now. “You still don’t know what the problem is? Let’s count, shall we? You blow into town, injure my boss, make me lose my job, and then act like _I’m_ the one with the problem. Did I leave anything out?” The blue of Cas’s eyes was different in the dim light of the bedroom, but the anger in them was uncharacteristic and unmistakable.

Okay. Well, that was a different reason than Dean was expecting, but he had been really sure they were over this by now. “Look, I’m sorry—“

“Just leave, Dean.” Dean froze at the words. The anger in Cas’s eyes was overwhelming now. “You’re a hunter. I have nothing in common with people like you. My luck, I’ll end up dead from something hunting _you_.”

Well that stung. It was like Cas had found that part of Dean’s brain that had been screaming the same thing at him since they’d kissed. _Don’t get too close. You break everything you touch._ He could barely keep Cas safe from the ghost here. If it wasn’t this ghost, it would have been some other monster or thing that went bump in the night.

“Cas, you know I’d never do anything to hurt you.” Dean hated that his voice shook.

“Get out of here, Dean. You wanted to leave so bad. Go.” Cas said with finality. Dean couldn’t even pick out a hint of regret in his tone. He meant it.

“Cas…” Dean could really only gape at him like a fish.

“I mean it. Fuck off.” Cas flapped a hand at him and turned to go stand by the window. The reflection of the light in the window outlined Cas’s dark figure in the glass.

Dean blinked, trying to pretend he wasn’t holding back tears. He knew he had to leave, but being told to leave like this was more than a bit different than the exit he’d had in mind. “That really what you want?”

Cas didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. Obviously.”

“Fine.”

Dean grabbed his bags and stormed out the door, threw everything in the Impala waiting outside, and jammed the key in the ignition, tearing out the parking lot. He didn’t register the hot tears running down his face until he hit the county line ten miles down the road.


	10. Fortissimo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout of everyone's decisions.

Dean didn’t register much of the road flying under his tires as he headed west. Little towns like Chapman, Hoardville, and more were in front of him as quickly as they appeared in his rearview mirror. He had no idea how fast he was going. He had no idea where he was headed next.

He kept replaying the conversation over and over in his head. _My luck, I’ll end up dead from something hunting you,_ Cas had said. _You can’t leave fast enough._ He swiped at his eyes angrily. It wasn’t like Cas was wrong necessarily. There was a reason he preferred his unattached life as a hunter. It wasn’t like he could really settle down anywhere. Not without a shitload of problems from this life following him to hunt him down and make him sorry.

But it was the way Cas said it that got Dean so bad. They had been fine! They both knew what was happening, both agreed that they would ride it out while he was in town, maybe even part as friends. Sure, Dean would be more than a little sad to see him go, but he had his job. And who knew? Maybe Dean would have even blown into town again to see him? Just a quick pop in to say _Hey, how’re you doing? Maybe you wanna have a drink and let me kiss you and maybe do that thing with your tongue again?_ The sad part was that it wasn’t even the sex that Dean was going to miss the most. Cas was genuinely funny and fun to be around. They got along well, once Dean stopped being an uptight fuckhead, and they were comfortable around each other. Dean didn’t feel like he had to keep up a facade of toughness and know-how for the guy, and in return, Cas was able to loosen up and have fun.

Dean sniffed and shook his head. He’d been broken up with before, this shouldn’t feel as bad as it did.

But it sorta did? He was used to things not working out for him, romantically or otherwise. He’d meet someone, have fun for a while, but one of them would come to their senses and realize it wasn’t going to work out and hit the road… usually him. It wasn’t often he was hung up on a person like this. And he’d never been so hung up on another man. He was out of his element here, and it stung to know that he’d fucked this up like he does every other relationship he’s come across.

He grudgingly stopped for gas on the edge of Grand Island. He had laughed at first when the municipal sign for Central City had proudly stated “The Center of it all!” as the city’s motto, but the pathetic misnomers for towns around here was starting to grate on Dean’s nerves. There wasn’t even any water around here for it to be even close to an island of any sort. Unless you counted the concrete ones in the middle of the dusty streets. Dean set up the fueling pump and walked in to the building for a bite to eat.

The gas station was a run of the mill Sinclair fill-up joint. The cashier inside was engrossed in the TV screen behind the counter, playing some rerun of a Montel Williams episode Dean was vaguely sure he’d seen before. Although, he mused, if you’d seen one, you’d seen ‘em all. Today it seemed Montel was speaking with his favorite guest, Sylvia Browne, self-proclaimed psychic and all-around unpleasant person, in Dean’s humble opinion. He’d met a real psychic, thank you very much, and no one who really could see what was going on behind the veil was preaching about it on cable television.

He went for the coolers at the back, humming ominously in the way old appliances do when they’re two inches from death. He liberated a Coke from the slot, but only after having to turn down a bottle of Dr. Pepper three weeks past its expiration date. When he brought it to the counter, along with a bag of Fritos, the cashier had unwillingly pulled his attention away from the screen.

“She predictin’ the end of the world now?” Dean gestured to the TV as the cashier rung up his purchases. The thick plastic cover over the register’s keys suggested this place hadn’t seen any renovation money since at least the late ‘90s.

The cashier, named Sid by way of the name tag, chuckled. “Not yet. She’s got aliens drinking out of swimming pools though.”

Dean had to laugh too. He could just see the edge of the screen. On it, Sylvia was indeed berating a guest for not assuming that aliens were using her house to establish contact.

_‘You’ve got to pay attention! When the people you know start acting different, you know something’s wrong.’_ She yelled. The camera kept cutting to the guest at the end of Sylvia’s attack, visibly unsure if she should laugh or scoff. The guest kept trying to cut in, but to no avail. _‘If the aliens have taken over your home or even your friend, you’re gonna sit there and tell me you won’t notice? Huh. Some friend you are, right?”_

Dean thanked Sid and headed out the door back to the Impala. He pulled the fuel pump out of the Impala and settled back into the driver’s seat. The Fritos got relegated to the passenger seat and the unwanted Coke pressed into the cupholder. He started up the car and signaled left to get back on the main road.

Traffic was light considering the time of day. It was hardly past six. In another hour, Cas would be at the high school, getting ready for their eight o’clock show. Dean knew he was worried about opening night, knew he thought the kids weren’t ready. He’d thought it was cute he was so worried about it, though he hadn’t told Cas that.

For what felt like the thirtieth time in the hour, Dean found himself going back over that last exchange. Cas _had_ been acting weird. He’d been cold, he hadn’t looked at Dean for longer than two seconds. Dean drummed his fingers on the leather of the wheel. He’d been working through his own hurt feelings to look past the surface, but maybe…

Dean swore and turned off the blinker, swerving to the right instead. He glanced at the clock on his phone. He could definitely make it back before the show started, and Cas definitely would refuse to see him. But Dean didn’t care about that quite yet. There was something he wanted to check.

…

Dean’s broken in to a lot of places. He’s broken out of more, but that’s usually the easier part of his gig anyway. He couldn’t help but think about the last time he’d thought this very thought as he was jimmying the lock on Cas’s door. The lights were off, and given the time, it was pretty dark in the rest of Cas’s neighborhood. The grocery store’s sodium yellow lights were humming faintly, but on a Saturday night, it was close to being deserted in a town this small. Only one of Cas’s upstairs neighbors had lights on, and judging by the volume of the television Dean could hear through the window, the occupant was old enough to not be Dean’s problem right now.

After a moment of swearing, Dean got the door open. In the dark, without Cas, the apartment seemed eerie and unnaturally still. Everything looked the same as it had this morning. Papers were still strewn across the dining room table. Two mugs rested in the sink, joined by a new plate Cas must have used for dinner. Dean quickly shut the front door behind him, and drew the blinds before turning on a lamp. The yellow light cast weird shadows over the furniture, throwing everything into unfriendly angles. The hearth in front of the fireplace no longer looked warm and inviting, but instead like a yawning maw, intent on swallowing him. The couch where they had spent that evening drinking and fooling around now seemed foreign and judgmental. _See where you overstayed your welcome?_ it all seemed to say. Dean forced his eyes away from the spot on the carpet in front of the couch where he’d knelt in front of Cas that night, Cas’s strong hands in his hair and sweet words on his lips. He wondered if Cas had been waiting for Dean to leave then too.

A search of Cas’s bedroom was next, under the pillows, through the drawers, and turned up nothing out of the ordinary. There were a couple photographs in a drawer featuring Cas and a man Dean had only ever seen on magazine covers. Dean didn’t spare them a long enough glance to notice anything other than the bright smile on Cas’s face. It was the same smile Dean had seen directed at him several times over the course of the week. He toyed with the idea of taking the photo, of ripping the other guy out so he at least had a picture of Cas to remember him by. Even if he didn’t find what he feared he would find here—that something was really wrong with Cas—he wanted to keep that smile with him. He nearly pocketed it, but sighed. If he was wrong, and Cas really did hate him now, it wouldn’t feel right to keep this against Cas’s will. He put the picture back and closed the drawer. He cast one last sweeping look over the bedroom and headed back into the living room. This was brutal going through Cas’s things, looking for… Dean really didn’t know what kind of proof he was looking for here. A hex bag, a sigil… something. He dropped to his knees to peer under the side table. Anything to put a name to the bad feeling Dean could feel gathering in the pit of his stomach. Something wasn’t right here.

It wasn’t that he doubted Cas’s feelings towards him had changed so suddenly. He was sure Cas would have told him to fuck off sooner or later. There was just something… not right about the sudden change. Almost like a spell or a curse. His hunters’ instincts were adamant about that.

A dark shape under the couch caught his eye. He crawled over and reached an arm out towards it. When he retrieved the item from underneath the couch, he stared at it a moment before swearing. In his hands, an old hat lay benignly in his hands. The worn fabric suggested it had been of regular use by its owner many years ago. This wasn’t just a spell or a curse by some unfriendly witch or other supernatural monster.

This was a possession.

Dean stuffed the hat into his coat pocket and heaved himself off the floor. He only barely remembered to shut the door behind him. He didn’t have time to lock it properly, he’d have to let Cas deal with that later. If he even _could_ deal with it later. Dean only had one thought on his mind, and it was to get to the high school as soon as possible.

Even with little to no traffic on the streets of Central City, it felt like the trip down the road—ten minute commute, Cas had told him—took three times longer than it should. He parked haphazardly by a beat up blue pickup when he finally got to the school grounds and dashed inside. He also had his sawed-off in hand, but tucked safely into his jacket. He definitely couldn’t go running into a full auditorium with a gun.

The atrium outside the auditorium was empty, save for a few tables covered in dollar-store sugar cookies and a few coolers of lemonade. Treats for after the show, Dean assumed. The only other person in the room was a sullen-looking teenager posted up by the auditorium doors on a rickety chair, engrossed in whatever was happening on her phone. She was startled by Dean coming to a panting stop in front of the doors.

“Has the show started?” Dean huffed, trying to catch his breath and not look like a lunatic. He wasn’t sure he was doing a good job.

The girl’s eyes were still wide. “Ye-eess? You can still go in, though.” She jabbed a thumb at the closed auditorium doors.

Dean thanked her and took a step forward before doubling back. “Do I need a ticket?”

“Um…” she glanced towards the hallway, unsure, “Mrs. Denney already took my money box. I don’t know…?” She stood up, like she might go find a teacher, which was the last conversation Dean wanted to have right now.

Waving her down, Dean handed her a five-dollar bill. “Keep it. Thanks.” He eased the door open into the dark theater. The show was in the swing of things, and a few parents cast him an annoyed look as the light from the atrium streaked into the theater. Dean quickly shut the door behind him and blinked a few times so his eyes would adjust. In his adrenaline-fueled mania, he nearly took out the kid who grabbed his arm to offer him a program and to point out an empty seat in a hushed voice. Dan muttered his apology and sat down quickly, adjusting his gun beneath his jacket. He had to get ahold of himself or he’d never make it to the end of the show. He didn’t know if this was the best place to be either, but he knew Cas would be here, and that was all he needed right now.

On stage, the set was lit differently than Dean had ever seen it. There was what looked like a castle near the back of the stage, but it was built of what Dean thought were packing peanuts, painted to look like stones. Other fake rocks littered the stage here and there, but with the purple stage lights, Dean couldn’t decide if the play was supposed to be set on Mars or somewhere on Earth. The kids in their costumes weren’t really helping either. Most of them were in some strange tunic-type clothing, with stupid looking shoes. Dean hadn’t paid attention to the posters coming in, or even the program in his hands.

An hour in, Dean really had no idea what was happening in this show. The kids weren’t very animated on their lines, and had a tendency to stand completely still when they weren’t actively talking, so Dean’s grip on the story and conflict was tenuous at best. The parents on either side of him seemed to be about as engaged as he was, though. One father had be prodded awake every so often by his grumpy looking wife, and by the expression of the other couple, they were regretting allowing their child to be part of this production. He couldn’t say he was paying the best attention to the show, though. He kept his eyes out for Cas, scanned the audience and the wings, but it was too dark to see much. He tried to remember where Cas said he’d be standing, but that was a while ago, before their fight. It hadn’t seemed important at the time.

Twisting the program in his hands, over and over, Dean was sure he was freaking out the people around him. Sure he looked like some weird creeper after their kids. They couldn’t know he was after the director.

“—Who we invite to see us crowned at Scone.” The last student finished with less-than-enthusiastic flourish. There was a full ten seconds of silence before the audience figured out the kids were done, and they started their applause. The cast came back out, some holding hands, some pointedly avoiding touching each other, and took their bows.

Dean clapped half-heartedly, hoping Cas would dismiss everyone to the atrium for snacks so they could talk. The lights never came up, though. The parents went on clapping, and the kids bowed again. It was clear, though, that they thought this would be done by now too. The kids kept glancing to the side of the stage, like someone was over there. Dean leaned forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a special surprise for tonight’s show.” A voice on a microphone sounded overhead. It was too high and pitchy to be Cas’s. The kids looked at each other, their confusion mirroring that of the parents in the audience. “Tonight, we are joined by one of our own, returning valiantly from a stay at the county hospital. Is Kevin Tran still here?”

A spotlight searched the crowd until it found a hand waving, attached to the rest of a very-embarrassed Kevin Tran in the audience. He was clearly just out of the hospital, a set of metal crutches by his seat on the end of the row. Dean was glad to see Kevin up and about, even if he had to sit through this snooze-fest. Maybe Kevin was rethinking his involvement in the drama program as a whole.

“We thank him for his hard work and dedication to the show, even after being gravely injured.” The voice continued until a dark-haired man stepped out from behind the curtain on the left side of the stage. The kids shuffled around as their director came to stand in the middle of the stage.

“We always value dedication to the theater, as it is the most noble art there is,” the man said. Dean boggled. If he hadn’t been looking right at him, he wouldn’t have guessed it was Cas in front of him. He looked like Cas, stood like Cas, and from this distance, even gestured a bit like him, but the voice was about three pegs off normal to be him. “It’s hard to find students who are as willing to put in the work as I am, and these kids,” he gestured to the students. “These kids are the _worst_ excuse for actors I have ever seen!” The man who looked an awful lot like Cas finished with a flourish. The students looked at each other, unsure if they should laugh. A smattering of whispering started in the audience.

“All week!” The man continued. “All week, I’ve been forced to turn this _talentless_ , unmotivated group of teenage layabouts into something resembling a cast, but does anyone try?” He turned on the students suddenly, causing a few of them to jump. “Does anyone take direction without acting like a _diva_?” He singled out one student, the male lead. “This young man would rather smoke a doobie behind the gym with his whore girlfriend than try for anything greater than a two-line soliloquy.” Someone in the audience gasped, presumably the lead’s mother. Or the girlfriend’s mother. Not-Cas continued, shoving the student aside and grabbing the arm of the girl beside him. The girl winced and tried to back away. “And this one, _begged_ for a role out of the ensemble. And what does she do with it?” He shoved her, and she fell to the ground. “Not a damn thing.”

Not-Cas laughed humorlessly and faced the buzzing audience. “You’re lucky I don’t kill the lot of them for their desecration to the stage.” At this, parents were getting out of their seats, moving forward, and calling for Not-Cas’s removal from the stage. The students were huddled together and trying to back away from the front of the stage as quickly as possible, clearly unused to and afraid of the man in front of them. One man from the audience climbed the side stairs leading up to the stage. Not-Cas glanced at him before running at him. With unbelievable strength, he pulled down a ten-foot ladder from seemingly nowhere, crashing it in front of the parent, and nearly shattering the man’s skull.

“You wanted to sit through that destruction of the stage, but not mine? Take a seat.” At once, the lights started crackling with intense energy. Parents stormed back, casting panicked glances at the ceiling, and making a mad rush to the doors. Programs littered the floor, and people were running. Students were pushing and shoving each other as well in their haste to get off the stage. Still others were casting fearful looks at Not-Cas, who was in the process of tearing apart the castle with his bare hands. Splinters of plywood were getting everywhere. Not-Cas turned to address what was left of the audience. “In fact, I’d rather kill myself. Here, in front of you all, than relive these atrocities again.”

Dean was up out of his seat and halfway to the stage when the lights flickered off entirely. Screams pierced the air as panic took over. The atrium lights were still on, which caused weird strokes of light illuminating the running bodies and clouds of smoke from the lights. When the lights snapped back on, Not-Cas was gone, leaving Dean and a few students alone on the stage with a broken pile of plywood and shattered glass from some of the lights overhead.

Waving his arms, Dean called out to the students, herding them off the stage and down into the audience where the last few parents were getting out into the atrium. He did a cursory sweep of the wings, but didn’t see Cas—or whoever the guy that was wearing Cas’s face—anywhere. He jogged out into the atrium where the sheriff’s department had shown up and were ushering everyone outside onto the grounds. He followed a group of four parents, trying to stay out of the attention of the officer.

It was chaos outside too. Parents were caught between outrage that a teacher had spoken that way about their precious child, and others were worried the same teacher had suffered a psychotic breakdown. The sheriff was questioning a few students and Dean heard their responses.

“He isn’t like that, really. He was fine yesterday.” Dean recognized one of the ensemble girls, the one who didn’t have many lines, but reacted well to things going on around her on stage. The sheriff nodded and asked how long he’d been a teacher there. “Not long, our last director quit right before school. He’d been… having a hard time.”

Dean could have thunked himself in the head for not figuring it out sooner. Of course, Cas hadn’t just changed his mind about Dean, if he’d been possessed, they were lucky he didn’t have his psychotic break earlier. He remembered the hat he had in his pocket, the last remaining bit of Oswald, and likely the only thing tethering Oswald to this plane… and to Cas.

What was stopping him from burning it right now? Besides having to explain the bizarre act of burning a random hat, Not-Cas still planned on hurting Real-Cas, and that wasn’t going to fly with Dean. Just burning it out wouldn’t be enough, and there wasn’t any way to tell that Cas’s body wasn’t splayed out in a puddle of blood in the center of the stage by now.

Damn it, Cas. They should have fixed this earlier. Together.

Dean huffed and reached for the shotgun in his jacket. He slipped out of the crowd and sidled back up to the doors. One of the deputies was blocking the door, but a quick flash of the fake FBI badge in Dean’s other pocket got him a nod and a look of grudging respect.

“Agent. You sure you wanna take down that man just by yourself? He’s proved to be pretty dangerous.” Dean had to stifle a laugh. Yeah, it was a vengeful spirit, but somewhere—he hoped—it was still Cas in there.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been tracking him for a while.” Dean answered cooly.

The deputy frowned. “What’s wrong with him?”

Dean considered. “We’ve seen his case before. Side effects of some tampered water. Probably municipal.”

“Tampered water? You aren’t suggesting…” The deputy put out an arm to block Dean’s path. He was only just able to reign it in enough not to just break it.

“I’m suggesting you check your city’s water sources.” Dean raised an imperious eyebrow, speaking the language all officers hated to hear—bureaucracy. “Now, I’m going in to grab my mark, and I won’t hear from you again unless you wanna get slapped with an obstruction of justice charge.”

“Hope you know what you’re doing, agent” Dean heard him ask as he passed, finally chastised. “Did you see the way he flung that ladder? Are they hiring wrestlers nowadays?”

“No, he can’t usually do that.” Dean answered offhand. He cocked his salt-round loaded shotgun and headed back into the school towards the auditorium. Oswald might have wanted a scene, but Dean was about to make this a goddamn arms race.


	11. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here comes the stunning conclusion.
> 
> (There is a chapter after this one, fear not)

Now that the house was empty, the theater had the same weird echoey emptiness, void of any human presence that it did when Dean first saw it. There was debris everywhere, like a tornado had whipped through. The stage was a mess. Clearly, the ghost was not at all happy with the production as a whole, and was taking it out on the set pieces. Wood was scattered across the stage, like someone had run the living room set through a wood-chipper. Cotton batting, maybe from one of the throw pillows was scattered around. A spotlight swung freely from the ceiling, sparking where it had been torn out. Adler was going to have a field day, and so was Cas, once he got a proper look at things when he was back in his right mind. Dean glanced around the house and couldn’t see Cas anywhere.

He tried calling out for him. “You might as well come out, I know he’s here.”

“And here’s the boyfriend. Tough breakup, I heard.” That voice from the wings. Though Dean knew it wasn’t Castiel’s, when a dark-haired figure strode out, it was definitely him. A lazy sort of sick smile was plastered across Cas’s face, one that Dean had never seen there before. Being in a corporeal form made the spirit a lot more vocal, it seemed.

“You’re possessing him, you sick fuck.” Dean growled, hoisting his pistol up to aim at Cas’s face.

The spirit smirked with Cas’s mouth. “Go ahead and shoot him, you miserable grunt. It’ll make for a wonderful news story.” He strode down the stage stairs and towards Dean. “Armed intruder fatally shoots the young drama teacher. How tragic.”

“Why don’t you just go ahead and fuck off out of him and I won’t have to.” Even as Oswald-in-Cas’s-body came towards him, he didn’t lower his pistol.

“Not a part of the plan, I’m afraid.”

Dean scanned over Cas’s form, teeth gritted. “What did you do to him?” Cas had a few scrapes here and there, like he’d been in a fight already.

Oswald shrugged. “This body isn’t really built for destroying a theater properly, so it got a bit damaged. It won’t make much of a difference though in the end.”

Breath catching, Dean gritted out, “You’re going to kill him.”

“I have to,” The spirit sighed, like it was all part of a hard day’s work. “He invaded my space, and didn’t respect it.”

Dean snarled and readjusted so the pistol was right against Cas’s temple. “Get out or I swear I’ll shoot. It’ll hurt you just as much.”

“Go on, then.” Cas’s face broke into a smirk that turned Dean’s stomach.

Pistol aimed, Dean held it there for a solid five seconds before lowering it, gruffly. Oswald’s grin widened. “Pity what emotions can do, isn’t it?” Cas suddenly swung at Dean, causing him to shuffle backwards. He didn’t actually expect the spirit to fight with him. Cas lunged at him, tossing him backwards into the front row of chairs. Dean’s vision exploded in stars as his back hit the hard plastic edge. He crumpled to the ground for a second, and got up huffing. In all the times he and Cas had fooled around, Cas hadn’t used that kind of strength to manhandle him. _Another time, Winchester,_ he thought bitterly. He felt a cool drip running down the corner of his mouth. His finger came away bloody when he swiped at it.

“Bitch.” Dean bit out before rushing Cas.

They tumbled around, throwing arms and fists. Dean was trying to be careful not to actually hurt Cas, but the ghost was making things difficult. His watch got smashed to bits, and he knew he caused more than a few nasty bruises. He got in a solid hit to Cas’s left eye and Dean winced. That was definitely going to bloom into a righteous shiner. 

Dean finally got a grip on him, and pinned him to a wall near the stage with an arm over Cas’s chest. “Hey, gonna have to ask you leave my friend.”

“Your friend? Seems a very bold choice of words, don’t you think?” The spirit sneered, a dribble of blood starting from his nose where Dean had accidentally got him with his elbow.

“Fuck off.”

Oswald threw him off and stood, straightening Cas’s shirt and tie.“No, I think I’ll keep him. He’s been a terrible host of the theater and he must be punished.”

“Sorry, man, not gonna happen.” Dean leveled his pistol at him. He didn’t relish the thought of shooting Cas, but a salt bullet would hurt a hell of a lot less than an actual bullet.

“You’ll have to catch him, first.” The sprit said, a manic grin spreading over Cas’s face. He turned and took off for the stage and the ladder Dean now saw propped up against the catwalk near center stage. Christ, but the fucker was _fast._

Dean tore after him, managing to grab his sleeve and take him down flat to the stage floor. Possessed-Cas stared up at him, and again, Dean was struck with how different Cas’s eyes looked when Cas wasn’t the one in the driver’s seat. Flat and dull blue, nearly gray, stared back up at him with an expression of hatred and disgust that Dean hoped never to see on Cas’s face ever again. “Get out of him before I burn you out.” Dean roared at him, caging him in with his arms. He pulled the bowler hat from where it had been crushed in his pocket since before the show. Oswald grabbed for it, Dean just barely managing to keep it out of reach.

“You wouldn’t hurt a hair on this head, pretty boy.” The spirit spat back. Dean only had a second to process the fist now hurtling towards his face. A solid hit to the jaw distracted him long enough that Cas was able to worm out from underneath him and start running again. Cas started up the ladder, and Dean had to shake the stars out of his eyes. He looked down to see the hat was missing. He saw Oswald climbing the metal ladder with impressive speed, the hat clutched in his—in Cas’s grip. Dean swore and took off after him.

Shimmying out to the middle of the catwalk, Oswald climbed over the railing and balanced precariously on the edge. “Maybe I’ll take over you next, hunter. I’m sure you’d be a very interesting ride around town.” he sneered at Dean. Dean had to grip the side of the catwalk once he was up. The fucking ghost was going to throw Cas off the side of the catwalk. He was going to murder Cas and there was nothing Dean could do to stop him.

“Cas, if you can hear me, you gotta take the reins.” Dean tried shakily.

Oswald cackled. “You’ll have to choose, hunter. Burn me out or save your man-candy!” Oswald dangled the hat teasingly over the edge. There was no way Dean could take it from him, he’d just hurl himself over, killing Cas.

“Cas, come on, you can fight this. Please—!” Dean heard the desperation in his voice, flinched when he heard it crack.

Oswald was maniacal. “He can hear you! That’s the best part!” He shouted gleefully, carelessly hanging on to the catwalk. The black eye Dean had unwillingly gave him was already blooming, throwing his eyes into sharp relief against his tanned skin.

Dean took a step forward, hands out, begging now. Begging Cas to hear him, for someone to take mercy on him. “Cas, sweetheart, throw him out—!” He had no idea how to help Cas or if he even could. He was a desperate man.

The spirit laughed again but cut himself off with a strange choking sound. A panicked look crossed Cas’s face, and Dean was emboldened. He started chanting the exorcism spell he’d used a thousand times with spirits and demons tied up against their will. If Cas was aware enough and could actively fight the spirit, Dean might have a shot at separating the two.

Oswald shrieked and Cas’s face pulled into a strange and pained expression. Dean reached out and gripped the collar of Cas’s shirt, pulling him back over the catwalk and grabbing the hat before Oswald could work out what was happening. He chanted louder. The spirit choked again, and flailed in Dean’s grip, Cas’s long fingers closing around nothing but air. He stuffed the hat back in his pocket, safe from any wily spirits trying to take it again.

“Come on, Cas...” Dean begged, starting the chant over. The spirit bucked and pulled, but Dean hung on for dear life, the catwalk starting to sway gently with their motion. Suddenly, a cosmic ripping sound tore through the air and Dean was pushed back, holding Cas while a gray wisp of smoke fell to the other side of the catwalk. Dean scrambled back with Cas in his arms as the smoke solidified and straightened up.

Dean turned his attention to the man underneath him. He touched Cas’s face. “Buddy, you in there? It’s me.”

Cas blinked and coughed a few times. His eyes were the same bright blue they always were. “Dean?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Dean straightened up. At the very least, Cas was alive and recognized him. Behind them, Oswald was gearing up for a fight. He was more solid than Dean had ever seen him, likely running on a power shot of Cas’s own life force.

“W-where are we? How—!” Cas’s gaze was wild, skating all over the place. He clearly had no idea how he got to the top of the catwalk. Dean tried to keep an eye on the spirit as he was advancing, while making sure Cas didn’t accidentally throw himself to the ground thirty feet below after all the work Dean did getting him out of that fucker.

“You gotta get down, Cas. Can you climb down from here?” Dean reached for him, pulling him slowly to a standing position. The catwalk swung dangerously, and Cas gripped his arm tightly. Dean stood between the spirit and Cas, and he was damned if he’d let Cas get hurt because of him. “Climb down, and get out of here. Head for the car. We’ll—“

“Dean!” Cas yelled, and Dean felt a sudden yank and he was sprawled on the other side of Cas.

“No—!” Dean raised his gun, hat still clutched in his other fist, but it was too late. The spirit had swung a lead pipe, clearly meant for Dean’s head, but instead of hitting his skull, Cas had pulled him out of the way and gotten hit in the leg instead. Cas crumpled in pain. Dean fired off two rounds, dissolving the ghost in a temporary blaze.

“Cas, I’m serious. You _have_ to get down, you can’t stay up here.” Dean pleaded with him. Cas nodded blearily and hoisted himself towards the side using the metal caging on either side of the catwalk. Dean helped him as best as he could, but the crackling static in the air told him the spirit was re-materializing.

The metal ladder Oswald had propped up against the catwalk was still there. They were lucky it hadn’t toppled to the ground amidst all the chaos. Dean got Cas positioned enough to start climbing down, even though Dean was pretty sure Cas’s leg was broken or near-broken. He’d have to rely on sliding down once he got close enough to the ground.

“Go, go!” He held the ladder steady while Cas started down. He chanced a glance over at the sparking ball of energy where Oswald was reforming. A hand tangled in his shirt and he looked down.

Cas had the front of his shirt, necklace and all, clutched in his scratched up and bloodied hand. The same hand that had been launched at Dean’s jaw not five minutes ago. Dean’s breath caught. “Don’t leave me, Dean.” Cas’s voice was raspy and his eyes looked tired and unfocused.

“You have to get out of here,” Dean said, breathless, gently untangling Cas’s hand, pressing a kiss he knew he was going to regret to the wrecked knuckles. “I’ll take care of this.” He promised.

Cas nodded, and shakily started down. Dean held the ladder steady as long as he could. Oswald came swinging down the catwalk again, shaking the whole structure.

“Enemy... to the arts!” Oswald slammed the side of the catwalk as he lunged for the hat, jerking it so much, Dean lost his grip on the ladder trying to keep it away from the spirit.

“Fuck—!” Dean could only watch in horror as the ladder jilted and fell to the stage below with Cas still on it. He gripped the side of the catwalk as it swung back and forth. He chanced a glance down just as Cas hit the ground with a sickening crunch. It was only about six or seven feet from the stage, but enough that Dean could hear Cas groan. Dean forced himself to look away. Now that the spirit was safely out of Cas, he could burn this fucker out of existence. He searched in his pocket for his lighter. He pulled the Zippo and the bowler hat—squashed beyond recognition now—from his jacket and held them up like deliverance.

Oswald made one last attempt to grab the hat. “Fool! This is my theater!”

“Fuck off, Shakespeare!” Dean yelled as he flicked the lighter. It took a few times before it caught, but when it did, he pressed himself up against the far railing of the catwalk. Oswald lunged for him, forcing Dean to lean far over, and just as he was within a hair’s breadth, the hem of his ghostly long coat caught in a flame. He staggered back, slapping at his chest in a vain attempt to quell the flames. Dean lit the hat up in a few other places before throwing it down to the stage below where it burned uninterrupted. He caught a glimpse of Cas pulling himself towards the far doors, and breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Maybe Cas would be alright enough for Dean to find him in a bit.

Oswald screamed and swore in agony as the flames encompassed him. Dean shielded his eyes and focused on not falling from the catwalk. The lights flickered and static crackled in the air all around. The flames grew higher and higher, raking over every inch of the spirit. Oswald was suddenly a ball of flames burning mere feet away from Dean thirty feet in the air on a swinging catwalk. Just as suddenly, the flames winked out, and Dean was left alone once again.

Dean only allowed himself three seconds to catch his breath again before he swung his head around, looking for a way down. His eyes alighted on the fly ropes on the side of the stage. He mentally calculated his chances of not dying and mentally shrugged. He had to get to Cas. He steadied himself on the edge, before taking a flying leap to the fly rope. He caught it in steady hands and shimmied down none too gracefully. When he hit the ground, he shook off the rope burn and took a second to douse the still-smoldering pile of ashes where the hat had been. Once it was out, he took off towards the dressing rooms and the scene shop at the back of the stage. He’d seen Cas crawl this way after he’d gotten down from the catwalk. He had to find him. Had to know he was safe, had to see—

Well, if he would even talk to Dean, that’d be a miracle in itself.

The stage and shop were a mess. Splintered timber was everywhere, the floor was cracked in multiple places. A can of blue paint had been spilled in the back corner, staining a counter and part of the floor bright cobalt.

“Cas?” Dean called into the silence. His heart rate kicked up when his own voice echoed back to him. He swung around. There weren’t a whole lot of places Cas could go, especially as injured as Dean feared he was. To the north was the door leading into the hallway between the stage and the choir room. To the left was a metal door leading out to the docks. Dean wasn’t sure Cas could push it open by himself, and if he did, the dock was a pretty sheer drop off.

He chanced it by hanging a right towards the storage room, emboldened when he heard a rustling sound behind it. He pushed and it didn’t budge, but like it was being held closed by something. Dean prayed Cas wasn’t trying to hold the door shut with his own body weight, and threw his shoulder into the door, shoving it open. A stack of boxes crashed to the floor, evident of someone pushing them together in lieu of a proper barricade.

The room was dark, and as Dean groped around on the nearest wall for a light switch, he heard a faint hitch of breath. When Dean’s vision cleared from the sudden brightness, his shoulders sagged.

“Cas...”Dean’s voice was strained with fear for the worst, and relief he had found him. Cas was slumped in front of him, eyes closed, leaned up against the wall of the storage room. A thin line of blood trickled from his temple and his eye was clearly starting to bruise. In his hands, he clutched the broken-off handle of what Dean assumed was once a mop. Dean dropped to his knees in front of Cas. His hands shook badly and didn’t know where to land on Cas’s body that wouldn’t cause more harm. He gingerly shook the man’s shoulder. “Cas, can you talk? Wake up, buddy.”

Castiel’s eyes opened, and while they were bloodshot, Dean was happy that they were able to focus on him. His head lolled in Dean’s direction and a smile cracked across his bloodied face like a chip in a windshield. “Deeeaan—! Didn’t think I’d see you again!” He slurred like he’d been drinking.

“Goddammit, you stupid son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, hating how shaky he sounded. “Come here, sweetheart. Is anything broken?” Cas’s face had various cuts and bruises, but Dean couldn’t help but take it into his hands. He swept his thumbs over Cas’s cheeks, clearing away a stripe of grime and—Dean cringed—dried tears. How could he have allowed this to happen?

Cas gestured weakly to his left leg, which was twisted at a strange angle, either from the blow from the metal pipe or his fall from the ladder. “Think my wrist,” he winced as he shifted slowly to a sitting position. “Not terr’ble” 

Shit. Okay, still movable though with some help. Liberating the mop handle from Cas’s death grip, Dean helped him stand, avoiding putting any weight on his left leg. He took Cas’s good arm and slung it gently over his shoulder.

“M’sorry Dean. I yelled at you... m’so sorry—“ Cas tried to speak, but was choked off by the sheer exhaustion that comes with getting possessed and the pain that was undoubtably clouding his brain.

Dean shushed him and pulled him towards the door. He had to get Cas to a hospital. “Don’t worry, man. I’m sorry, too. Talk later.” Dean knew fully well there probably wouldn’t be a later. It’d be best for all involved parties if he got lost after making sure Cas could get his leg set.

He was silent the whole way to the county hospital, the same squat building with the tired gazebo in the front. The grounds definitely looked better landscaped in the daytime, but at almost midnight, it just looked sad and uninviting.

Dean could relate.

Checking in was straightforward. The nurse on duty—thankfully a different one from the last time they were here—fretted over Cas as he came in, immediately producing a wheelchair and starting on a line of questions that Cas answered blearily as he was wheeled away. Dean pretended his heart didn’t clench as Cas looked back before disappearing around a corner. He was left alone in the pastels and generic art of the lobby, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. He should leave, he reasoned. Cas would be taken care of—the nurse seemed friendly enough. He should definitely pack up and be gone before morning hit. Cas could chalk this up as a bad memory and tend to his broken leg and wrist without reminders. The job was done, Dean had no other way to help here. He turned to leave.

But Cas still had nowhere to go. He was still fired after the show was done, and it was unlikely the principal would be too keen to change that, especially once he got a look at the theater. Dean winced. It would probably be an asshole move to leave without saying goodbye at least. Especially, he reasoned, since they’d had that whole... thing together. If Cas still wanted to see him. Dean was hopeful Cas would at least talk to him, emboldened by how glad Cas had been to see him in the supply closet. But maybe he was just glad to be alive, and wouldn’t want to revisit their night together. Several nights.

Dean swore and sat down in one of the chairs in front of a coffee table littered with outdated magazines.

After what felt like hours—he didn’t know without his watch—a different nurse appeared in the doorway. Dean stood, nearly taking the coffee table with him. The nurse visibly stifled a laugh, and cleared her throat.

“You’re here for Castiel Novak?” She sounded pleasant. Her green scrubs were only the slightest bit wrinkled, hinting at a long shift.

Dean blinked. “Yeah, I’m his—yeah.” He shut his mouth. He really wasn’t Cas’s _anything_ if he was being honest. And probably even less after their fight.

The nurse smiled. “We’ve got the bones in his leg set, and he’s been given a mild sedative for the pain.”

“He thought his wrist was broken, too.”

She checked her clipboard. “The doctor said it wasn’t broken, just a bad sprain. He’ll get a brace for that as well before he leaves.”

“Good, that’s good.” Dean hesitated. There really wasn’t any need for him to stay. Cas was taken care of for the time being.

“He’s been asking for you, if you’d like to follow me.”

Dean’s head shot up. Asking for him? “Y-yeah, that’s great.”

The nurse nodded and gestured down the hallway she just came from, indicating for Dean to come with her. This hallway was different from the long-term care wing that Kevin had been in. This wing was more suited to guest staying overnight and for shorter visits. There were fewer homey decorations, more beeping monitors. They passed a few rooms, all open and empty at this time of night in such a small town. Dean supposed they were lucky the county hospital was even open overnight, rather than having to run Cas to Grand Island or somewhere bigger.

He really didn’t know what to do. He tried for small talk. “I know he had some bruising, but nothing internal?”

The nurse pursed her lips slightly. “No, he had some bruising around his forehead, but we’ll keep him overnight. It didn’t look like a concussion.” She stopped in front of the only closed door in the hallway and leveled him with suspicious look, probably noting his own bumps and scrapes. “If you don’t mind me asking, just what did you and your boyfriend get into at this time of night?”

Dean had to bite back a totally inappropriate grin. Boyfriend, huh? Well well, Mr. Novak. “Working late at the school theater again, you know Cas. Trying to clean up after the show.” In a town this small, the nurse was likely to know Cas from around town and knew what he did for a living... even if she didn’t know the specifics of his relationship with his alleged _boyfriend_.

The nurse squinted, not totally believing him, but she gestured towards the door. “You can go right in. He’ll be glad to see you.” She walked back down towards the lobby, leaving Dean standing outside the door.

Dean flexed his fingers around the silver handle a few times before sighing. Nut up, Winchester. 

He opened the door.

Cas was laid up in the room’s only bed, a clean white cast extending from just above his knee to his toes. He had bandages here and there, marking where Dean had not seen where the ghost got him, including a particularly nasty slice on his face held together by a butterfly bandage. Dean grimaced at his lack of diagnostic skill. He’d been so worried and relieved about seeing Cas again, about Cas talking to him again, he was willing to take whatever he could get. Cas looked around and waved slightly, the heartbeat monitor on his finger leading to a screen that pulsed steadily by his side.

“Nice dress.” Dean said, grinning.

Cas looked down at his gown and sighed ruefully. “It’s not my color, for sure.”

“Shuddup, it’s totally your color.” Dean nudged his unbandaged leg and took a seat next to the bedside. Might as well be comfortable for being told to leave and never come back. “How do you feel? Apart from the obvious.”

Cas considered. “I feel better than I have the past two days, certainly. I don’t feel angry, or paranoid. It’s more like before. It’s... nice.” He smiled softly at Dean, who ducked his head.

“Well, good,” said Dean, rather lamely. “I was afraid I’d be too late and I’d only be finding your corpse or something.” He winced at the thought of being too late, and missing the sight in front of him. Cas might be hurt and hating him, but he was alive. Dean could deal with the rest.

“No, I’m good.” Cas said, reaching for Dean’s hand. He squeezed it once, and Dean hung on like a lifeline, terrified Cas would pull it away, knowing he should. “Thank you for coming back for me.”

“‘Course I did. That’s my job.”

The smile dropped. “Right,” Cas said, taking back his hand and letting it fall limply on the bed. “Save the scared townspeople, kiss the pretty girl, disappear off to the horizon, right?”

Dean’s heart clenched. “Something like that.”

“So, should I be thankful you’re sticking around long enough to say goodbye?” Cas raised an eyebrow and Dean was reminded of the many times he found that attractive.

“I gotta go, Cas.” He said slowly, sadly. “I’m not supposed to be here. This right here should prove that.”

Cas nodded, a frown on his face. “Then I would like to apologize.”

Dean blinked. “For what?”

“Dean, I feel awful. I said some horrible things to you the other day, and I didn’t mean them.” Cas’s eyes were as wide as saucers, pleading with Dean. “I heard myself saying them, and I saw your face, and—and... and I don’t think I’ll ever get the image of watching your expression when I said it, but I couldn’t _stop_ and—nothing I said could be further from the truth, and I know that doesn’t matter when I was so cruel to you and—“

Dean put his hands up to stop Cas from babbling. “Dude, I figured it wasn’t you. Not your fault.” He smiled kindly, hoping to reassure the man. The apology was nice, and he didn’t want to leave Cas wallowing in his own guilt, but he really did have to go and the longer he let Cas talk, the harder it would be to walk away.

Cas hoisted himself up a more comfortable sitting position, only wincing slightly as stitches were pulled here and there. “I know you don’t feel the same, but I really enjoyed our time together, and I don’t want you to leave thinking that I don’t—appreciate what you did for me and the school.”

_In another time_ , thought Dean. “I got you fired and I got you hurt, Cas.”

“All the same,” Cas said, determinedly not looking at Dean. “All the other time we spent together was... nice.”

“Nice, huh?” Dean chuckled, humorlessly. “I’ll be sure to store that away.”

Cas sighed, and seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “All I’m saying is that... I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry.”

“You ain’t got anything to be sorry for, man.” Dean patted his arm gently, moving to stand. “Glad I was able to help.” He straightened up and checked his pockets for his keys and phone. His gear had been tossed unceremoniously in the back of the Impala—another place he wouldn’t be able to look at for a while without remembering. He turned to leave.

He had pictured a dozen different scenarios of how this would go while he was in the waiting room. In one, Cas threw an absolute fit and begged him to stay. In another, Cas threw another fit and ordered him to get lost and never return. He didn’t know which one would make this easier on both of them.

“So is this really how this ends?” Cas said behind him. Dean turned to look at the man who now had his arms crossed petulantly over his hospital gown. “Me with a broken leg and you waltzing out of here like nothing’s wrong?”

Dean blinked, confused again. “I am sorry, Cas. You have no idea how sorry I am that I put you in harm’s way. I’ll settle up with the gal at the desk. This won’t cost you anything—“

“No,” Cas said quietly. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d have said he heard tears incoming. “I mean, can’t I come with you?”

Dean was at a loss for words.

“I know I’m... kind of annoying, and I can’t shoot very well. But can’t I come with you? Wherever it is you’re going?”

“Cas, I don’t know—“ Dean started, his heart feeling like it was skipping every other beat.

Hurrying to cover the hesitation, Cas went on. “We don’t have to be like we were. I know how these things work, I’m not expecting anything.” He leaned forward, hands on the bed, pleading with Dean.

“What do you mean ‘expecting anything’?” Dean turned back towards the bed, wanting to make sure they were on the same page. Cas had said that before, that he knew how 'these things' worked, as if Dean had any better idea than Cas did what they were doing. 

Cas sighed. “I know a pity fuck when I see one. I just want you to know I’m not expecting you to... reciprocate how I feel—or anything.” He finished, suddenly bashful again.

Dean stared. “Hang on a second, you think you were a _pity fuck_? Is that really what you think?” He was also very interested in knowing how Cas felt about him, but he’d get to that part in a minute when Cas wasn’t being fucking _delusional._

Flushing crimson, Cas still refused to look at him. “I’m not dumb, Dean. I know you don’t like to put down roots anywhere, least of all with a small-town teacher in the middle of nowhere. And that first night—when we were talking about my ex and—then I guess the other nights—.”

“That doesn’t make you a charity case, though.” Dean muttered, acidly. “Do you think that low of me that you assume I just blow into town, fuck the nearest willing body, and leave again?”

Cas looked up, eyes wide. “Of course not! I just—“

Dean plowed on. “Or maybe you don’t think I _enjoyed_ what we had that night? Or every damn day since then? You think I’ll be able to look at the backseat of the Impala and _not_ remember that night?”

If possible, Cas’s eyes went a little wider the longer he listened, despite the shiner. It was clear that Cas had no idea how Dean felt either, and what a great feeling to add to Dean’s conscience right now. He could see tears welling up in the other man’s eyes again, but he was too angry and heartbroken to pull any punches right now.

“I mean, don’t you know how much it broke me up when I thought you were dead, or worse? I might save people for a living, but I guarantee I don’t go falling in lo—“ Dean stopped, finally. He couldn’t finish that sentence. He could barely be that honest with himself about how he felt, and he certainly wasn’t going to railroad Cas with that right now. Cas was openly weeping in front of him.

He tried a different phrasing. “Man, I’d love for you to come with me,” he said, dropping his tone at least. “I’d be friggin’ thrilled. But look at yourself!” He gestured to the cast on Cas’s leg and the general area of his face littered with bruises. All from him, indirectly. “You have a black eye because I hit you. Well, not _you-_ you, but you get the idea.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed now, two tears making a hot trail down his cheeks. “If you’re concerned for my wellbeing, don’t be so noble. I’ll heal—“

“And you might get hurt again!” Dean stalked forward, dropping heavily in the chair next to the bed. He glared, angry that Cas could take his health, his life, so lightly. “You said it yourself--well, someone else said it about you. You could get killed with me!”

“What if I don’t care?” Cas asked petulantly.

Dean threw his hands up and leaned back. “Don’t do that to me. I care! Like it or not, I care a whole lot about you, and I don’t want to be responsible for taking you from your life. Cas, you like teaching.” He slumped back, expression set in an angry scowl. In front of him, Cas glared at the wall, his tears overflowing.

“Is it always like this?” Cas asked, tears definitely running down his face. He swiped at them angrily. “Do you just leave a trail of broken hearts behind you wherever you go?”

“Truthfully, I don’t even usually stick around this long.” Dean admitted. “Usually, I duck out before the girl—person—whoever notices. Easier that way.” In truth, Dean had learned well by now that as soon as the ghost or monster was gone, the vic usually wanted all reminders of their incident gone, including Dean. It didn’t do to dwell on crushes or… love or whatever this was, no matter how much it stung.

Cas looked down. Dean had been around a lot of crying people, had reduced many to tears by what he had to say. But this? This was brutal.

“Of course, usually, the people I meet doing this job aren’t stupid enough to sleep with me, let alone ask to come with me.” He couldn’t quite keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“I like you, Dean.” Cas glanced at him, pleading again. “I feel more alive with you than I ever have. I like being around you, even when you tease me. I like hunting with you, and sue me, but I like kissing you, too. Even when you leave, that won’t change.” His tone changed to anger. “And I’m sorry, but I think I’m falling in love with you, too.”

Dean fought a smile, but hung his head. Cas’s words filled him up with both bubbling joy and the sickening realization that they were both on this dumb emotional ride together. Those stupid puppy dog eyes on Cas were almost as bad as on Sam. “I just don’t want you to wake up some day, and wish you hadn’t bothered with me.” He said quietly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then don’t leave me behind.”

Dean sighed. He reached out and took Cas’s hand again. He squeezed it gently and pressed light kisses to the knuckles where they were scraped and bruised. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow, okay? This isn’t the best time to get you worked up.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Cas asked, squeezing Dean’s hand tightly. “Are you gonna sneak away while I’m out?” He sounded suspicious, like he didn’t fully trust Dean to stay.

Fuck, this man had him. Had him exactly where he wanted him, and he probably knew it too. He was just waiting for Dean to get with the program.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” Dean said steadily. “Pinky swear.”

He offered his pinky to Cas, who smiled reluctantly and wrapped his own finger around Dean’s. “I’m holding you to that. Legally binding, you know?” Cas slumped down to the pillows, already exhausted again.

Dean let their pinkies stay twined together as Cas settled down. He used his other hand to tuck the thin hospital blanket securely around Cas’s body. God, if his dad could see him now. Not that he’d really care what his Dad thought about Cas. After the night he’d had, he was pretty sure anything else seemed like a way less severe problem than the guy he maybe sorta loved almost dying.

_Maybe it’s a good thing this whatever-you-call-it is just for me and Cas_ , Dean thinks as he watches Cas drift off. He settled down more comfortably in his chair—which was not too comfortable, if he was being honest—and let himself keep touching Cas as he fell asleep as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr at azo_dye for more updates or to say hello!  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> -azo


End file.
